


The Pizza Delivery Girl's Survival Guide to Gotham City

by Morveren



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, F/M, Mentions of child prostituion, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Spoilers for Arkham Knight, Torture, post arkham knight
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-25 23:49:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 61,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13223808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morveren/pseuds/Morveren
Summary: People who lived outside of Gotham City would most often think of it in terms of its heroes and villains. About Batman and Robin, Joker and Harley Quinn.People who actuallylivein Gotham City would only think of one thing: surviving.Who cares about the people in costumes when your house has been bombed for the fifth time, or your wife has been taken hostage just because she worked in a bank?Or, in your case, when you have to make regular deliveries to places where even Batman feared to tread?Because let's face it. In a world full of superheroes and costumed villains, the real heroes are the ones who make sure that people get their pizzas in forty-five minutes or less.





	1. Misfits

**Author's Note:**

> More Jason in the next chapter. Thanks for reading!

 

> “We''re all misfits here. That's why I started this squat, after all. For people like us, who don't fit in anywhere else." - Welcome to Bordertown, _Terri Windling_

 

**The Pizza Delivery Girl**

Traffic lights were an odd thing to pray to, but everyone in Gotham City had to pray to something.

Whether it's to Batman, the city's fallen savior, to the ever-harried GCPD, or even to the spirit of the long-dead Joker.

Yeah, some people will pray to anything.

In hindsight, maybe praying to traffic lights wasn't that bad.

You nervously checked your watch, trying to decide whether or not a late delivery was worth running a red light for.

Most of the Gotham City Police Department was too swamped with paperwork or too busy dealing with _actual_ criminals to bother with the occasional traffic offence. But it wasn't just the police that you were worried about.

Other idiots like yourself wanting to run a red light, the pothole-riddled street currently slick with rain, some gang member or other who might think that you were encroaching on their territory.

 _Oh, would you look at that, the light's_ green.

Maybe there was a God after all.

The motorcycle roared to life underneath you, which might mean that it was just as ready as you to speed off into the night or that something in the exhaust was broken.

Again.

Raindrop flecked at your face, dotted the grimy surface of your goggles.

When you had been new to the city, you had stopped every few blocks or so to wipe them off. Now, you just grimaced and sped on.

The rain was as permanent a fixture to Gotham as the gangs, the garbage, and the costumed crazies running around it each night.

To say that you loved it was an understatement.

The order for two extra large bacon-pepperoni-and-pineapple pizzas had been made half an hour ago, which meant that you had about fifteen minutes to get to East End and hand it over to whatever godless bastard wanted pineapple on their pizza.

In your opinion, anyone who ordered pineapple on their pizza deserved to have it delivered cold.

But of course, no one was asking for your opinion, and the customer was quite likely to break your teeth if you decided to voice it. Typical East End attitude, of course.

Half of the pizza joints in the city refused to deliver to the district—whoever did the deliveries had a nasty tendency to get mugged, shanked, or reported missing.

But not Mamma Mia's, proud retailer of greasy pizzas since 1990. Delivered in forty-five minutes or it's free.

Another glance at your watch told you that you had ten minutes left.

You hoped that whoever answered the door was a really good tipper.

Somewhere in the distance, a car blared its horn. Lightning forked across the sky, followed by thunder loud enough to make your ears ring.

Or that last one could have been a gunshot. That wasn't far off, either.

You shook your head and sped on.

East End was the sort of district that you could smell before you saw it. If there was ever a stink of desperation, then its residents wore its essence as perfume.

Desperation and the ever-present stench of piss, sweat, and vomit.

Not for the first time you wished that you could afford a muffler for your exhaust.

While most of the people here tended to treat you more or less politely—Mamma Mia's was, after all, one of the few places that hadn't blacklisted the district—most of the criminals residing here weren't exactly known for their steady trigger fingers.

Or their generosity when it came to giving tips.

But it certainly beats the skinflints over at the Diamond District. You never quite got over the rich old lady who decided to give you some coupons in place of a tip.

 _Expired_ coupons.

As a precaution, you turned off the engine of your motorcycle when you got near the place, a rundown old house, its numbers long eaten away by rust.

When half of your customers tended to answer the door with guns in their hands, surprises such as the occasional sputter from your motorcycle tended to end in blood.

You knocked at the door, then quickly followed it up with, "Pizza delivery."

Just in case they mistook you for a pimp or a burglar or something.

The woman who answered the door did so with a smile, though it was no easy thing to look at. Lisabet's was an old regular whose face was marked with the sort of deep scars that one doesn't get from acne.

And if her face was bad her teeth were worse. Cracked and yellowed like old tombstones, it was a wonder that Lisabet managed to eat anything at all. Though she did have a habit of joking that Mamma Mia's tendency to under-cook their pies made them easier to chew.

While most of the girls she worked with assumed that her teeth were the product of years of meth use, Lisabet once confided to you that they had been smashed in by an angry pimp when she was thirty-four.

At any rate, seeing Lisabet made you smile back.

While it was clear that she was always hard on cash, the old woman was always kind to you and, more importantly, tipped generously.

It's not like you were in any position to refuse any cash she gave you.

"Hullo, Lisabet," you said, handing the boxes over. You nodded to the other girl inside the shack, training an old, rusty revolver on you. "Hello, whoever you are. I'm the delivery girl. Shoot me and you'll be stuck with ordering bland Chinese food for the rest of your stay here."

"Oh, don't mind Sam," Lisabet sniffed. "She's just a bit jumpy. And it's not like you can blame her."

As she spoke, Sam moved into view.

Though the district had been provided with electricity, few people could afford it. Lisabet's shack was lit by a lone candle, but even in the dim lighting, you could see the dark bruises on the young girl's face, particularly around her mouth. She might have been pretty too, but her face was so swollen that it was hard to tell.

What wasn't hard to tell was her youth. Sam couldn't have been more than fourteen.

You swallowed, feeling your chest growing tight.

"She uh...one of your coworkers, Liz?" you asked, gesturing to Sam.

"Not anymore. She's looking for new work now, aren't you, Sam? Maybe something at your restaurant?" Lisabet added, hopefully.

The girl nodded solemnly, though her eyes were fixated on the pizza box. The light in them was almost feral, and you found yourself sympathizing. You knew what it was like to have been that hungry.

"Maybe we need uh, a busgirl or something. Someone to do odd jobs. I'll talk to the boss about it," you said.

"Thank you. You're such a dear," Lisabet beamed. "And be careful going back out there, tonight. I've been hearing gunshots over at the south side of the district."

You made a face. "Gang wars, again?"

"I wish. Rumors have been spreading that it's the Ghost's doing."

A sliver of ice crept up your spine, and you let out a hiss like an angry cat. "Fuck me. Of all the nights."

The Ghost was one of those odd creatures that rose up after the city's attempted takeover more than a year ago. No one was quite sure what it was.

Some said that it looked like a bat, leading several online blogs to speculate that it was the spirit of Batman/Bruce Wayne, dedicated to protecting the city even after his death.

But even you, who came to Gotham City months after the vigilante's death knew that Batman wasn't known for such brutality. Hardened men and women; the kind of people who would kill a man without batting an eye, found lying on the ground, covered in piss and crying in fear.

Screams of frightened criminals ripping through the still night air, as if they were being murdered, as if they were wishing to be murdered.

Once, you had even seen the Ghost, just a shadow out of the corner of your eye, during an evening delivery run.

A large something moving across the rooftops. Too big to be a bat, too quick to be a man. Its edges hazy and blurred, like someone had tried to erase a drawing, but did not quite succeed.

And though you weren't an idiot, and did not pursue it, the air around you seemed heavier, somehow. Thicker. A cold sweat broke out over you and you had spent the rest of your night trying to calm your raging heartbeat.

What little sleep you had gotten was plagued with nightmares.

Though some people insisted that it was Batman's ghost and indeed, the figure seemed to target only criminals, just as many claimed that it was Joker's ghost, back from the dead to pull one last prank.

Either way, you were sure to stay away from the fucker.

"Thanks, Lisabet," you said, taking her payment and your tip. "I definitely don't want to stay for that. You two be careful, too."

"Don't tell a fish to swim, dear. And don't forget to ask if your place can use a new girl, okay?"

"I won't. See you around, Sam."

The smile she rewarded you with was even ghastlier than Lisabet's. Because while Lisabet was allowed to keep most of her teeth, cracked and decaying though they were. It looked like someone had taken a pair of pliers to the young girl's mouth and gone to town with it, leaving her as toothless as an old woman.

_Dear God..._

Noticing your expression, Sam hid her face behind her hands, which earned you a smack from the older woman.

"Don't stare. Sam's just starting to come out of her shell, and I'm not going to let you ruin it," she snapped.

"Sorry, Sam," you stammered. "Just...forgot my manners, I suppose."

"Damn, right you did." Lisabet gestured to the girl behind her. "One of her pimp's boys no doubt. They have a habit of removing girl's teeth because they wouldn't _fit_."

You told yourself to count to ten before speaking again, taking several deep breaths in the process.

Well, what the fuck could you do? You weren't Batman, you couldn't march into whatever den Sam's pimp lived in and start beating them all up. Hell, the worst you could probably do with them was bleed on their no-doubt expensive shoes right after they spilled your guts.

So instead, you plastered on a smile. The last thing Sam needed was somebody talking to her like she was something to be pitied.

You said, "I really fucking hope the Ghost gets whoever did this to you, Sam."

"Nicovante?" Lisabet snorted. "I guess you got your wish, then. Didn't you hear? Someone broke into the bastard's warehouse and killed everyone in there."

There was nothing friendly about the old woman's smile. "From what I heard, whoever shot Nicovante got him right between the eyes."


	2. Dishonorably Live

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to this story has been incredible. Thank you so much to everyone who liked, reblogged, kudosed and commented! I was honestly blown away at how many people were interested in my story.
> 
> Once again, thank you Mister Pseudonymous who is a fountain of good writing advice, as always and whose conversation prevented me from blowing my brains out when I was writing this monster. That's how frustrating this was to write. 
> 
> Also huge thanks to paradise-runway, who has been incredible at spotting consistency errors, grammar errors and just about every other kind of error. Without her, this chapter would have turned out way differently.

> ”I’d rather die honorably poor than dishonorably live.” The Monstrumologist, Rick Yancey

*********

There were no stars in Gotham City; too much smoke from the factories, too much light pollution to make them visible.

In your opinion, the city had something better than stars.

The Bat signal, shining stark-white against the cold skies of Gotham.

You were pretty sure that you were seeing one of Gotham’s myths in the making; you’ve already heard all the rumors about the Bat signal and what it was supposed to represent: it was a gravestone for Batman, the city’s monument to its dead hero—as if the one in the middle of Gotham wasn’t enough.

No, it was a _middle finger_ to Batman, a mockery of how he never really came to those in need.

It was a joke, it was a symbol, it was the actions of a crazy cult; each person had their own opinion on the signal. But in truth, all anyone really knew was that every night, like clockwork, some mad bastard would light up the signal and keep it burning until the early hours of the morning.

Well, that and that half the gangs in the city wanted to murder whoever was doing it. You’ve already heard several of Cobblepot’s men talking about the bounty on the poor guy’s head.

You silently hoped that they wouldn’t get whoever was lighting the signal. More than a symbol of hope or whatever it was supposed to represent, the signal made it pretty easy for you to gauge how far away you were from the center of the city.

Which was pretty useful when you were planning to get out of East End on foot.

Sometimes, you wished that Lisabet would keep her mouth shut about the rumors.

_She_ wasn’t the one who had to spend the night driving around and delivering pizzas to places where any sane person would run away from, screaming.

_She_ wasn’t the one who was now craning her neck up at the buildings. trying to see if the Ghost was flitting from rooftop to rooftop.

And she _definitely_ wasn’t the one who had to walk out of East End, bulky motorcycle in tow.

The next customer can _have_ their free pizza. You weren’t going to risk the Ghost’s attention and you definitely weren’t going to risk getting shot.

To top it all off, the concrete road of East End was _sticky_. For reasons that you definitely didn’t want to think about.

Another glance behind your shoulder told you that no one was following you.

A woman sitting in the gutter looked up at the sound of your footsteps. She was so thin that you could make out her bones through her skin. An unlit cigarette dangled from her lip, though she breathed in deep as you passed by as if taking a drag.

Her glassy-eyed stare would have worried you if you weren’t so sure that she was high instead of suspicious.

For a second, you were tempted to pass on what Lisabet had told you, maybe advise her to find a hiding spot and lie low until whatever business the Ghost had with East End was over.

But screw it, the last time you had tried that, you had been mugged for the two boxes of pizza and the dollar-seventy you had on you that night.

If goodwill ever existed in Gotham, then it had been dead for a long time, its throat slit and its corpse thrown into the river with the rest of the city’s unfortunates.

You kept on walking, ignoring the odd growling noise the woman made in your direction.

From the distance, you could hear gunfire.

Gunfire and...something else.

Voices.

“...not here…”

“Don’t worry. We’ll find him.”

“You better fucking hope we find him or else we’re—”

“Shh! Do you hear that?”

You had sudden urge to throw your shoe at the drugged-up woman, who still hadn’t stopped growling.

Several blocks away from you, underneath a broken street lamp, you could see the shadow of two men. Their heads were oddly shaped, so they must have been wearing helmets or masks. You wished that you could see the helmets, just to gauge your likelihood of survival. Men who wore helmets or other military gear typically belonged to the gangs, usually trying to hold their territory in a district. Groups like that formed and disbanded by the week, usually done out of convenience than any actual grab for power.

They were disposable and they knew it, and they were a lot more likely to let you off with a few harsh words and the occasional warning shot.

But the ones in the masks and the costumes, the ones with the half-burned suits that marked them as Two Face’s men or the ones with marionette make-up on their faces. Those were the ones that liked to _hurt._

The ones who were more likely to trace a knife along the edge of your cheek until it bled as a “reminder” or who’d do lightning-quick fake lunges at you just to laugh at the look on your face.

You could that the two men were holding something in their hands. Whatever it was, its shadow was long and thin.

A gun? A rifle, maybe?

_Fuck._

You were pretty sure that you could survive a gunshot to anywhere except your head, but that didn’t make the prospect any less terrifying.

“Hey! Who’s there? You with the motorcycle! I can see you!”

Sweat trickled down the back of your neck and your hands were suddenly slick against the handlebars of your bike.

The prospect of jumping onto your motorcycle and making a break for it was tempting, but there were two immediate problems with that.

The first being was that there was no way you could get far enough from the men before they could fire at you or your tires.

The second and more important problem was that your motorcycle, piece of crap that it was, took several kicks before it actually started.

You thought about the knife in your boot and the stun gun clipped to your belt. Neither of which would help a lot against bullets.

For a brief moment, you considered the dark humor of you _actually_ bringing a knife to a gunfight.

Somehow, you didn’t really feel like laughing.

One of the men raised the object he was holding, pointed it at you and the familiarity of the situation sent a spike of terror up your spine.

You couldn’t even move.

“HEY! ANSWER ME!”

Behind you, you could hear the drugged out woman getting up, feet dragging against the concrete.

Your mouth felt too dry for speaking, let alone smooth-talking yourself out of this situation.

Instead, you raised one hand up to your chest in a hopeless gesture of surrender, one hand still on your motorcycle’s handlebars to keep it steady.

It was the second man who saved you and you watched as his shadow lunged towards the first, yanking the object up, away from you. It didn’t fire like you had expected it to, but you still flinched when you heard the second man yell.

“Stop it, you idiot, she’s the fucking _pizza girl_.”

“She could be a spy!”

“Fuck off, man. Do you want to eat Chinese for the rest of your life? Nothing else ever fucking delivers here.”

A rush of relief swept through you, so intense that you felt briefly lightheaded. If you hadn’t had your motorcycle to lean on, you might have very well collapsed to the ground.

_My uniform_ , you thought dumbly. _He must have recognized my uniform._

The red-white-and-green uniform that permanently smelled of grease had saved your life on more than one occasion.

It was pretty easy to spot, and it marked you as a delivery girl rather than as part of the mob.

Though you were pretty sure that they weren’t going to kill you now, you still felt an itch in your feet as they approached.

Something inside you screamed at you to run.

When the men came into view, you saw that they were wearing some kind of gas mask.

A new villain, maybe?  
Gas masks weren’t something that you encountered often, though you have heard about Scarecrow, the mad doctor currently locked away in newly-renovated Arkham Asylum.

One of your coworkers had told you about the burlap sack he wore over his head whenever he wanted to terrify his victims. And the toxin he had created to terrorize Gotham City.

Lydia’s eyes had been haunted when she told you about its effects.

Something inside you shrank at the sight of what they were holding in their hands.

Not guns. A sort of sprayer, the kind farmers used to spray pesticides on their plants.

Their equipment, along with the gas mask, chilled you with its implications.

You forced on what you thought was a disarming smile.

“Hi, boys. Just doing my rounds tonight.”

From behind you, you could hear the shuffling of the drugged-up woman and you silently prayed that she wouldn’t get involved in this.

The man on the left, a small man whose clothes hung off his body didn’t reply, and you assumed that this was the one who had been in favor of shooting you.

His partner, however, raised his hand in an obvious bid for a high five.

“Hey there, pizza girl,” he said in a cheerful voice as if he hadn’t just been arguing about spraying you with whatever mystery chemical was in the container strapped to their backs.

You gave him a high five, having to stand on the tips of your toes just so you could reach him.

Less because you actually felt like greeting him and more because you were terrified of what he would do if you blew him off.

The small man grunted. “You sure she isn’t some sort of spy?”

“I told you, she delivers pizzas. Their mozzarella sticks are great.”

The bigger man turned to you as if appraising you. Despite the uniform, you felt naked, knowing fully well that whether you lived or died was based on this man’s impression of you.

When he spoke, you couldn’t help but flinch, expecting him to tell you to get down on the ground or shoot out some witty one-liner.

Instead, all the bigger man said was, “I better get free pizza for this, you hear?”

The druggie behind you started growling again.

You smiled wider, though the back of your shirt was soaked with sweat. “Yeah, sure, sure. I’ll give you an entire _month’s_ worth of free pizza.”

At this point, you would have promised him Pioneer’s bridge if that was what he wanted.

At last, the druggie woman came into view, her arms bumping into the side of your motorcycle as she passed.

She had the odd, shuffling gait of the perpetually high. If not for the way the light reflected off her too-bright eyes, you would have thought she was sleepwalking.

A hand that looked more like a claw reached out to grab the bigger man’s sleeve. The skin along her knuckles was cracked and bleeding.

“You,” she said, words slurring. “I know you.”

And the man, the one who had saved you from his partner, the one who had given you a high five less than a minute ago, turned to the woman and said, “Fuck off, bitch.”

And then he sprayed her.

*********

Was it telling that your first instinct had been to jump back and save yourself from the spray of mist that was suddenly gushing full-force at the woman?  
Maybe it was, but you certainly weren’t going to stand in the line of fire.

The woman screamed, a high, thin, scream and threw out her arms to protect her face.

She took a few steps back, stumbled, and fell hard enough to knock the wind out of her.

Both of the men were laughing, jeering as the woman lashed out at empty air, cracked fingernails raking at something unseen. She was hissing, like an angry cat; pupils blown wide.

The big man tossed you something, so quick that it nearly slipped through your fingers.

It was a gas mask, just like the one the two men were using.

“Better put that on, pizza girl or you’re going to end up just like her.” He jerked a thumb towards the old woman, who was scrambling to get up from the ground.

You kicked down the side stand of your motorcycle to free your hands, putting the mask on with numb fingers.

Wouldn’t you have breathed in some of it, too?

The woman had managed to stand up, but she wasn’t lunging at the man or trying to wrestle the sprayer away from him.

Sweat dotted her forehead and her eyes were wide, unblinking.

Every time she breathed, something in her chest rattled.

When she spoke, it came out as a whimper, “No.”

She stumbled backward, clawed at the air again, but she was too far away to reach you or the two men standing next to you.

“What did you do to her?” you said. What was in those canisters?

“Nothing she didn’t deserve,” the big man said.

Though he made no move towards the woman, she still stumbled back, flinching as if she had been hit.

And then she screamed, a high, thin scream that made the cords in her neck stand out; her voice sent a chill straight up your spine.

“Get away!” she said, swinging her fists widely. “Get away from me!”

But all her fists hit was empty air.

_What was she seeing?_

Should you help her?

She wouldn’t have helped you, had your situations have been reversed. But still, shouldn’t you do something when a fellow human being was in trouble?

A nervous glance towards the two men told you that neither of the men was moving, their attention fixated on the terrified woman.

Despite their masks, you knew, just knew that they were smiling.

You opened your mouth to speak, to say something that would calm her down. But you have never been good with words, less so with comforting people.

For a second, just a second, you could hear your mother’s voice in your head, her hand gently stroking your sweat-damped hair. _It’ll be okay, sweetheart. Just take your medicine._

The small hairs on the back of your neck bristled.

The big man spoke again, his deep voice cutting easily through the woman’s screams, “Better get out of here, pizza girl. And make sure you return that gas mask on the next delivery, all right?”

“ _What?_ ” you demanded, probably not the wisest course of action. “What about—”

“Get out of here. Now.” As the man spoke, his grip on the sprayer tightened. You wondered if the gesture was subconscious, or if it was a threat.

“But she’s…”

“We’ll take care of her,” the big man said dismissively. The ice in his tone left no questions on what he meant by “take care of”.

His companion, the smaller man, jerked at that. “What? Come on man, we still have to look for—”

“It won’t take long.”

You wanted to pull out your knife and make them leave her alone. But you weren’t Batman, you weren’t some superhero who could save someone with the swish of a cape.

You were only ever the fucking pizza girl.

And you were terrified; your heart was beating painfully against your ribs.You felt like screaming right along with the woman.

“Are you deaf, girl? I said _get out_.”

_No, no, no, no._

You should help her, she’s terrified and you should help her. You don’t leave someone like that without doing something about it.

But you couldn’t stop looking at the sprayers on their backs.

The woman’s voice broke then, devolved into sobs. She hunched over as if protecting herself from imaginary blows.

“I’m not going to ask a third time, pizza girl.”

Maybe it was the way his hands tightened on the sprayer or maybe it was the mad little giggle the smaller man let out as if the entire thing was one big joke.

Whatever it was, it made your entire world shrink down to a point, a single choice. If you didn’t get out of here now, if you stopped to help this woman, these men were going to kill you.

_These men were going to kill you._

And there it was, cold as anything. There was no one to save you, no Batman to step out from the shadows, no superhero to drop out from the sky.

There was nothing except survival. Flee or die.

The woman’s life or yours.

Without another word, you got on your bike, ignoring the woman’s hacking coughs.

One, two, three kicks before your motorcycle roared to life.

Somebody behind you gasped, maybe in pain, maybe in fear. You couldn’t afford to look back.

_These men were going to kill you._

Face burning with shame, you rode away.


	3. Look

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to paradise-runway, who has been amazing at beta-ing the chapters so far. Her advice and feedback has always been solid, and I'm so grateful for such a talented person working on this story with me.
> 
> Once again, I'd like to thank Mister Pseudonymous for all her advice and support while I was writing this. She deserves a thousand spiffy vacation homes. 
> 
> Finally, I'd like to thank everyone who's read, kudos-ed and especially commented on this story. The reception to this story has blown me away. I'm so lucky to have such incredible people reading my story. You guys have no idea how uplifting it is to read your comments whenever I'm stuck in a rut or having a hard time writing. 
> 
> Once again, thank you!
> 
> _If I sound really emotional right now, it's because the chapter took so long coming out that I was either going to finish it or start crying_.

> ”Look, here are her stupid hopes! Look, here’s her dumb soft heart!” Tell the Wolves I’m Home, _Carol Rifka Brunt_

*********

Maybe it was bad luck, maybe it was fate or maybe it was something as simple and stupid as your motorcycle acting up ( _again_ ) at the wrong place at the wrong time, but the damn thing died somewhere just outside of East End district.

Piece of crap machine. 

You dragged it near one of the darker alleys where you could take a breather without being watched.

Gotham had no shortage of dark corners and shadowed alleys. This was partly because most of the street lights have been broken or torn down for whatever scraps of glass and metal they could provide and partly because whoever created Gotham was one grim son of a bitch and wanted the city as dark as possible. 

You’d been told that when Bruce Wayne/Batman had been alive, the city used to be brighter.

Aside from spending most of his nights dressed up as a bat, Bruce Wayne had also poured a massive amount of his resources into making Gotham a better place. 

Shelters, orphanages, regular feeding programs, free electricity for the poorer districts in Gotham. 

The man had been a hero both _in_ the costume and outside of it.

You tore off the gas mask with shaking fingers, taking in large gulps of the cold night air. 

Every breath made it feel as if your lungs were freezing.

Wherever Bruce Wayne was, you doubted he would be very proud of you right now.

That woman…

You had left her to those men, to do whatever they were planning with her. It chilled you to think that the man who had sprayed her like an animal had also greeted you with a cheerful voice and a high five.

Hot tears gathered at the corner of your eyes and you scrubbed them away angrily. 

You had no right to cry. 

_You_ weren’t the one being gassed with whatever the hell was in those canisters. 

_You_ weren’t the one who got left behind at the mercy of the men in the masks.

_You_ left _her_. 

_You had no right to cry._

Shame welled up in you like tears.

Shame, and a burning, painful _awareness_ of just how unheroic you were, as relentless as a heartbeat.

You had left that woman to get tormented, maybe even killed.

Most nights, you loved Gotham City. 

The chaos, the poverty, the desperation. It was the perfect place for someone like you to slip in, unnoticed and get lost amongst the six million other souls who called the place home.

Tonight, though? 

Tonight you _hated_ it. 

****

*********

You didn’t know how long you had stood there in that darkened alley, the four other pizzas you had to deliver probably congealing into a greasy mess by now.

Your phone vibrated in your pocket for the third time now. Probably Lou with another set of orders again. You ignored that, too. 

From a distance, you could hear gunfire, and you couldn’t help but wonder if they were shooting the woman now. Or if they were toying with her still.

The knowledge was a weight across your shoulders and you wanted nothing more than to go home, pull the blankets over your head and forget this night ever happened.

You stood up, fully intending to try and start the bike up again. The fastest way to end tonight would be to finish your deliveries and head straight home. 

A brief check on your watch told you that you had ten minutes to get to the Diamond District to make your next delivery.

Unless you sprouted wings and _flew_ there, you doubted that you were going to make it on time. 

Resigned to the fact that tonight’s deliveries were coming out of your paycheck, you tried to kickstart your motorcycle, which only resulted in a sputter of air that sounded like the last, gasping breaths of a dying man.

You heard the faint rattle of metal on metal and scowled at the bike.

This was going to be one of _those_ nights, then.

Before you could try either kickstarting it again or start cursing it to submission, you heard it again. 

Somewhere behind you, the soft _clang_ of metal hitting metal, like someone was trying to be quiet.

You went stiff, one hand going to the Taser strapped to your belt. You’d never used it before, and you doubted that it would help you much in a fight. 

Anyone who was actually skilled in fighting could probably disarm you and then turn the weapon back on you. 

But still.

Its presence was a comfort.

A liability, yes. But a comfort.

Leaving your motorcycle behind, you crept forward, trying to make as little noise as possible. 

There was always the chance that the sound was made by someone like you, just another rat trying to ride out whatever storm’s brewing at East End.

But after tonight, you weren’t going to take any chances.

Your fingers were shaking; you were too keyed up, too jittery, too damn _scared_ to think that whoever was lurking in the shadows was just another innocent. 

Should you attack? Should you try to run? Should you simply peer over the corner, check to see whoever it was in that alley and try to make peace?

There was an ache in your chest that would not quite go away and your breathing came out harsh enough that you placed a hand over your nose to muffle the sound.

Again, the clang. 

There, just around the corner. You could just make out the sound of heavy breathing. 

Sweat slid down the back of your neck, cool as ice. 

You crept closer.

Please let it be some druggie too stoned to move or some old man dumpster diving. You raised your eyes to the heavens, as if in prayer.

Up above the Gotham skyline, the bat signal burned bright. 

You came to Gotham City too late to ever see Batman glide across rooftops, but you have heard enough about his legend to give the signal a shaky smile.

If there was ever a need for Batman now…

Though come to think of it, he probably wouldn’t waste his time saving the likes of you, anyway. 

Footsteps…

Now or never, you grabbed the Taser from its holster, your fingers so slick with sweat that you nearly dropped it. You moved the two steps that it took to round the corner, your footsteps echoing unnaturally loud across the dark alleyway.

You raised the Taser like a gun, intending to yell, “Freeze!” or something equally cheesy. But the words died in your throat. In that alleyway in East End, where all the street lamps were broken, where you could barely make out the silhouette of a man, the metal glint of a gun shone as bright as the sun. 

Its barrel was at the level of your eye and the darkness you saw in there seemed endless.

Well.

You’ve always wanted to see if you could survive a headshot.

****

*********

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

Three full seconds and you were still alive. You reached out a hand and pinched your cheek, which was still mercifully intact.

The gun had yet to go off. Even better, it wavered, just for a second. Just long enough to allow you to focus on whoever was holding it.

And—

And—

It was a stupid move, taking your eyes off the gun, but you did it, anyway. You craned your head to look at the sky, certain that you would see dirt and concrete where there should be clouds.

Because the entire world’s gone topsy-turvy.

Because Batman should be dead.

Because here was the bat symbol, alive again.

Only this time, it was red.

And it was pointing a gun at you. 

****

*********

An eternity. That was what it felt like.

An eternity of baited breaths, of the sound of your wrist watch tick-tick-ticking the seconds of your life away, of staring down the barrel of a gun.

Batman didn’t kill...right?

Batman never used guns, either.

_So who the hell was this guy?_

Whoever he was, he was _huge_ , towering over you despite the fact that he was hunched over. 

More than huge, he looked _solid_ , muscular. There was no chance of wrestling the gun away from this guy. You were pretty sure that he could knock you into next week.

With his pinky finger. 

But there was something else, something that gave you the hope that maybe you had a chance at beating this guy, outsmarting him.

He was breathing heavily, audible despite the distance between you two.

And when he stepped closer, close enough to see his face, you felt your pulse quicken.

He was wearing a helmet as red as the bat symbol on his chest, and while that was nothing new, you saw something else that made your breath catch. 

The helmet had been cracked open near the top of his skull and you could see a patch of black hair and one cold, blue eye, the pupil so dilated that it was almost black.

You felt tears rising in the back of your throat, choking you.

Men and women, smaller and less powerful-looking than the one in front of you, have killed people for seeing their faces, for being a loose end.

Who’s to say that whoever was underneath that red mask won’t do the same?

You opened your mouth to say something, _anything_ ; tearful pleading to spare your life, some smooth-talking one liner about not shooting the pizza girl, even a defiant _Screw you!_ just before he pulled the trigger.

But your mind was blank and you said nothing.

It was the man in the red mask who spoke. 

“You...you’re…” His words came out labored, almost inaudible due to some sort of voice scrambler in his helmet. He lowered the gun, just the tiniest bit, then held it steady again.

The hand that wasn’t holding the gun was clutched to his side as if he’s been hurt, though you could see no blood.

Your mind once again went to the woman you had left, how she had slashed the air with cracked fingernails, how her pupils were blown so wide that you could hardly see the color of her eyes, how every breath seemed to come at great effort.

“You’re...you’re not—”

You shook your head. “I’m probably not who you think I am; I’m just here to deliver pizzas.” 

There was a moment or two of complete silence, during which you contemplated the wisdom of interrupting the guy who was holding a gun to your face, and your own mortality. 

The barrel of the gun lowered just enough that you were no longer staring at that endless hole, an action that nearly made you scream with joy.

Maybe he _wasn’t_ going to shoot you, maybe the red bat on his chest actually stood for something and not just put up there as a mockery of the dead vigilante.

Maybe you weren’t going to die.

Then the gun fell out of his hand and you saw the way his eye came unfocused. The hand that had been held tightly to his side fell loose.

He took several uneven steps, reaching out one hand towards you, maybe as a threat, maybe in supplication, you didn’t know.

And then he collapsed.

****

*********

This was it. This was your chance.

All you had to do was turn your back on him, retrace your steps back to your motorcycle, start it up again and hopefully forget this ever happened.

_This was your chance._

Then why were you still standing here? 

The man in with the red bat symbol was lying at your feet, his breathing labored and his eyelid fluttering.

You should _leave._

_Like you left that old woman._ The thought was as sudden as it was intrusive. Shame rose up in your throat like bile. If you left him, would he be able to recover enough to leave this place? 

Just as sudden came the men’s voice, as loud as if they’d been standing right next to you.

_“Don’t worry, we’ll find him.”_

Those men had been looking for someone just before they encountered you and the old woman. Was this man the ‘him’ they’d been looking for? And if he was, what did that mean?

If you left him, would they find him? Would he die? 

Was this even something you were supposed to get involved in?

_Did he do anything to deserve it?_

A wave of nausea crashed over you at the thought. All the old woman did was say that she knew them, and she had gotten sprayed like an animal. 

You should _leave_. It was the safest course of action. Like you had left her. 

Only this time it was different; there was no man holding a sprayer of mystery liquid to your face, no thinly veiled threats disguised as advice.

And this was the man that they were looking for. They had sprayed the old woman simply because she got in the way. You didn’t even want to think about what they would do to this man.

All you had to do was walk away.

As if in agreement with you, your phone buzzed again. Maybe one of your coworkers with another order or maybe a customer wondering where their pizza was. 

You really should look at it, answer the phone, maybe with some semi-heartfelt apologies.

You should walk away.

You had left the old woman with those two men because you told yourself you had no choice.

Her life or yours.

What was your excuse now?

Nothing. You had nothing. 

You had arrived in Gotham City just a little over a year ago with nothing, as well. Not even the clothes on your back had belonged to you. They had belonged to the old truck driver who had taken pity on you and had agreed to drop you off at the nearest city.

If that driver had walked away from you, like you were planning on walking away from this man, where would you be now?

Certainly not in Gotham City.

_But that’s different_ , you thought fiercely. You didn’t point a gun at the truck driver, you didn’t have angry gangsters looking for you.

But you had needed help. 

And he had given it to you.

You took a step forward, waiting to see if the man would spring up, maybe laugh at you while gunning you down. Laugh at how un-Gothamite you were being right now. But he didn’t.

This man would die if you left him, just as you would have died if the truck driver had left you.

Just as the old woman would probably die because you left her.

Against all logic, all sanity, you found yourself kneeling down and trying to pull the man up by his arms. Underneath the hoodie he wore, you could feel hard material, like body armor.

The red bat on his chest looked eerily like a blood splatter and you prayed that it wasn’t an omen.

“Come on, come on,” you muttered, draping the man’s arm around you and making to stand.

You staggered under the sheer bulk of him, his dead weight combined with whatever body armor he was wearing nearly unbalancing you. He was heavy, and there was a hardness to him that couldn’t be attributed to muscle. You experimentally knocked your knuckles against his chest and a hollow sound came out. It sounded like glass or more likely, ceramic.

The guy was armored like a tank. You only hoped that your motorcycle would be able to take your combined weight. 

“Listen,” you muttered, leaning down to grab his gun and your Taser. “I’m trying to save you, all right? _Save_ you. So I’d really appreciate it if you don’t shoot me when you wake up.”

No reply. 

“And I’d really appreciate it if you don’t die on me either. Come on, my motorcycle’s this way.” 

You half-carried, half-dragged the man into the dark alleyway where you had left your bike. 

“I’m saving your life so I’d appreciate it if you don’t judge me for my motorcycle being a piece of crap,” you continued to babble as you maneuvered him between your body and the box that was attached to the back of your motorcycle. That would at least prevent him from falling off instantly, provided that you pressed yourself against him in a way that had his body armor painfully digging into your back. 

You wished that you had some rope to somehow tie the guy to you, but you doubted that he’d appreciate waking up tied to a stranger.

It took so many tries to start your motorcycle that you nearly cried when you heard it roar to life. 

“Just another night in Gotham City, ladies and gentlemen,” you grumbled as you took off.


	4. Horror, or Perhaps Sorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goddamn, well this was a long time coming, isn't it?
> 
> Sorry for the long wait. Deadlines at work, my grandmother's birthday and being incredibly sick for the past few weeks held this back
> 
>  ~~Also I probably would have finished quicker if I didn't spend most of my time faffing about on Subnautica~~
> 
> As always, thanks to paradise-runway for her amazing beta-ing and to MisterPseudonymous for all her support and advice when I was writing this story. 
> 
> And of course, once again, thank you to everyone to who has commented on this story so far, I am blown away by the support that everyone continues to give this story. Thank you, you guys make the long hours worth it.

> “The look on her face is one of horror, or perhaps sorrow so great that it might as well be horror. Past a certain point, it’s all the same thing.” The Fifth Season,  _N.K. Jemisin_

  
*********

As much as people would like to joke about Gotham being a lawless wasteland--which it was--it also had its own gravitational pull that drew towards it all the starving artists, innovative geniuses and people looking for love in all the wrong places.

Dr. Pamela Isley, despite her later career as Poison Ivy, had written papers on toxins that became the foundation for antidotes to a dozen lethal plant species. The fear toxin created by Scarecrow was now being studied by bright-eyed postgrad students as a possible cure for depression.

There were more, if less glamorous rumors. Somewhere in East End, it was said, an artist who could see the future can paint your death--for the right price, of course. In the black markets of Gotham, which were put up at night and torn down by morning, models and bodybuilders clamored for a sample of Bane’s Venom.

Even military leaders from far-off countries would come to deal with Wayne and Drake-Wayne Enterprises for their advanced weaponry.

Gotham, for all its misery, had its own glamour that drew in as many people as it drove away. As a result, Gotham City was blessed or maybe cursed, with a real estate market whose prices fluctuated between dirt cheap and sky-high, depending on whether there’s a city-wide threat or some sort of international negotiation.

You came to Gotham mere months after the Arkham Knight’s attempted takeover and back then, business was bad enough that your landlord had let you stay for a couple of paper IOUs and the promise to sweep up the empty rooms every now and then.

Now though, with the city achieving some semblance of peace and with more people drifting back to their old haunts, your landlord was becoming finicky. Just the other week, he had kicked out the old couple next door, who were using the ground floor as a meth lab, citing that their work endangered the other tenants.

You had been a bit sad to see them go. When you had moved in, they were the only other tenants in the building and the elder of the two women had offered you some home-cooked casserole, so maybe you’d grown sort of attached to them.

Plus, if your landlord ever caught you with the strange man you were now dragging up the stairs, you could always claim that he was one of their clients.

Maybe it was an act of idiocy to bring him back to your apartment, but you couldn’t think of any other place that was considered safe enough. People who took the time to wear masks generally didn’t appreciate being brought to the hospital.

Your phone had been ringing nonstop in your pocket, and you’ve been swearing to yourself that you were going to kill Lou when you came into work the next morning.

“Come on,” you muttered to the man. “Not far now.”

You were pretty sure that he was still unconscious, but talking made you feel better, even if you were just talking to yourself.

It was with no small amount of relief that you finally opened the door to your apartment. You could feel sweat trickling down the back of your neck and wrinkled your nose.

Well, it’s not like you spent your time lifting weights at the gym. Most of your exercise involved running for your life from whatever lunatic decided that a box of pizza was worth knifing someone for.

You had originally planned on taking him to your bedroom so he could stretch out a bit, but you were exhausted and decided to dump him on the sofa. The worn old thing groaned underneath his weight and stuffing came out of one of its many holes.

You stared at the man for a few seconds. Even unconscious, his breathing was too fast and you worried that he might have some sort of lung injury. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead.

In spite of yourself, in spite of the fact that he almost _shot you_ , you felt pity well up in you at the sight of him.

Even in his sleep, he couldn’t get any rest.

Had it been the gas?

The woman had been near-rabid when she had been sprayed; her actions animal, her screams inhuman.

And yet this man had somehow stopped himself from blowing your head off. You cautiously tapped the bright red mask he wore, wondering if it had been meant to filter out the gas.

Underneath the harsh bright lights, the exposed skin around his eye was turning a sickly purple shade. There was a small cut along his hairline, blood sluggishly leaking from the wound. A sudden wave of nausea washed over you.

You knew that Gotham was a violent place, but there was something inside you that jumped and cowered at the sight of a raised gun, of blood and bruises. A year of living here and you were still not entirely used to this place.

Once, you had told this to Lisabet, after seeing her answer the door with a fresh-cut lip and a bruise in the shape of a fist, right above her heart.

The sight of it had jolted you then, as it jolted you now.

Back then, Lisabet had looked you straight in the eye and said, “Good.”

You wondered what Lisabet would say if she saw you now, an old lady on your conscience and a gun-wielding stranger on your couch. Would she still think that you were “good”?

She’d probably say you were an idiot.

You stepped away from the man, worried that you might empty the contents of your stomach on him.

Once upon a time, during one of those rare moments that you had some extra cash, you bought a first aid kit. The amount of accidents and man-made disasters in Gotham City had made them commonplace, replacing the chocolates and menthol candies usually found next to the cashier, where people can pick them up as an afterthought.

Though you were unlikely to ever need one, you had reasoned that it was better to be prepared. You silently thanked your impulsive purchase, because it at least gave you something to do.

You cast a glance towards the masked man, who was still unconscious, twitching restlessly and muttering.

He didn’t look like he’d be up any time soon. Surely he wouldn’t be able to get up in the two seconds it took you to nip to the bathroom?

Probably not.

But you made sure to take his guns and lay it on the table, far out of reach.

Just in case.

*********

The first aid kit was one of those heavy-duty ones, packed with more bandages and disinfectants than you knew what to do with.

Adhesive tape, thick white gauze, alcohol wipes, small ampoules filled with liquid. There was even a metal, kidney-shaped dish that chilled you with its implications.

You ran a hand through the kit, trying to find something that was even slightly familiar, trying not to panic at the mounting realization that _you had no idea how to use any of this._

You were beginning to feel lightheaded and slightly annoyed at your own stupidity. A man was in your living room—a man _you_ brought here so that you could help him—and it turned out that you didn’t even know _how_ to help him.

Your hand hovered over a bottle of antiseptic. The best you could do was disinfect his wounds and dress them.

But if he had been shot? Inside the kit, you saw an instrument that looked like a tweezer with bent ends. Maybe that _was_ for digging out splinters or bits shrapnel, but you seriously doubted that you could dig out a bullet; not without seriously injuring him in the process.

What about his breathing? Did the first aid kit have something that could help people who were having trouble breathing?

As if in sympathy, your own chest ached at the thought.

You picked up a green-and-yellow syringe, only to put it down again, feeling intimidated.

 _Just focus on what you_ can _do,_ you thought angrily. Now was _not_ the time to freeze up.

But if he started bleeding all over your couch due to a gut wound or something, you were going to start screaming.

Grunting at the weight of the kit, you half-carried, half-dragged it to your living room. Just before you stepped into the room, you heard a thud.

Had he fallen out of the couch? That would be bad.

Without stopping to think, you called out, “You alright back there?”

Not that you were expecting an answer. And while you didn’t get one, something...changed.

Maybe it was nothing, but having spent nearly every night on the streets of Gotham, you learned that ignoring your gut feeling was a bad idea.

You walked slowly, stepping on the parts of the floor that didn’t creak. The bulk of the first aid kit made your movements clumsy, and you froze when you heard the man speak.

“I can hear you.”

His voice came out through a burst of static; his mask must have come with some sort of voice scrambler.

Your mind raced as you considered your options; you still had the Tazer, but shooting thousands of volts of electricity into someone’s body sounded _really_ counterproductive to helping him.

The last thing either of you two needed was a fight. You had taken away his guns, though you had no doubt that he had other weapons on him.

But you needed to show him that you weren’t a threat. And unless he was hiding a shotgun or something equally destructive, you were pretty sure you’d survive.

You raised your voice, silently hoping that he wouldn’t notice the faint note of terror in them.

“All right, I’m coming out. Listen, I’m not looking to hurt you.”

With a muttered prayer to whoever might be listening and the heavy first aid kit pressed against your chest like a shield, you stepped out of your hiding place.

The man was sitting up, hunched over and hands resting on his knees as if to support his weight.

The red of his mask glowed eerily in the dark.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“I told you, I’m the pizza delivery girl,” you said, thinking that honesty would be the best course of action right now. If he thought that you were lying to him, he might get even angrier and then a confrontation would be inevitable.

“I found you in an alley. You looked half-dead. I took you home to my place to help you,” you added.

The man shifted, his blue eye sweeping over your apartment as if looking for traps or monsters hidden in the shadows. “Where are we?”

“We’re in New Gotham, several blocks away from the GCPD building. Don’t worry, I didn’t report you or anything.”

Well, shit. Probably shouldn’t have told him your home address, but right now, him trusting that you weren’t going to hurt him was the higher priority.

In your experience, people did stupid things when they’re scared.

“I need to get out of here.” The man surged to his feet, only to sway before he could take more than a few steps forward. A hand went to his side again, and you couldn’t help but notice how his fingers trembled.

“Sit down, please.” You meant it to sound authoritative like you actually knew what you were doing. But it came out small, pleading; a child playing grown-up.

“Let me help you. Look, I have no idea how all this first-aid shit is supposed to work, but I can at least disinfect your wounds. Put some band-aids or something..”

The man stared at you for several long seconds, still swaying on his feet.

“I don’t need your help.” But even as he spoke, he sank back to the couch, whether it was because he agreed or because he was too tired to keep standing, you didn’t know.

 _Was he serious?_ You bit down on the sarcastic comment that rose to your lips.

The stranger reached for a pouch on his belt and cursed under his breath when his shaking fingers couldn’t open it.

He still refused to look at you.

“You really do look bad,” you said. “Here, let me get that for you.”

“ _No._ ”

You could feel yourself starting to flush with irritation. “Look, I’m not going to hurt you. Just—”

Why was he making this so _hard_?

You walked over to him, still carrying the first aid kit, ready to help him in the off-chance he decided to ask for it.

He was still stubbornly trying to open the pouch, but his fingers were shaking too badly. You could see sweat forming on his brow.

“Oh for— _here_.” You smacked his hand away, opened the pouch and pulled out what was inside—a small glass cylinder with liquid inside.

You weren’t exactly expecting a thank you, but you didn’t expect the glare he sent your way either.

“Don’t touch me.” His words came out as if he was gritting his teeth, accompanied with another burst of white noise.

_You’re welcome, buddy._

You handed him the vial, saying nothing. Even you could see the dilemma here; he was obviously meant to drink what was in the little vial, but he couldn’t do so without removing his mask.

He wasn’t looking at you, and yet he gripped the vial like a lifeline.

Maybe it was.

The room was so quiet you could hear his harsh breathing.

You decided to make the first move. “I’m taking you’re supposed to drink that.”

“Yes.”

For a second, you were gripped with the urge to rip his mask off and pour the concoction down his throat. “And you’re not going to take that mask off in front of me.”

“Yes.”

You sighed and ran a hand through your hair, the strands of it sticky with sweat.

“All right. I’ll bite. I’ll...go into the other room, okay? You can drink it, then. I’ll leave this kit, too. In case you need it,” you said, dropping the kit on the couch beside him.

This time, he did look at you, the contrast between the bright red of his mask and the blue of his eye almost startling.

“Why are you helping me?”

_Because l let an old lady take the fall for me tonight and I didn’t want a second person on my conscience._

You swallowed, feeling your tongue stick to the roof of your mouth. “Just seemed like the right thing to do.”

The words stuck to the back of your throat. Lies, as you were well-aware, had a bitter aftertaste.

********

The doorknob felt impossibly cold underneath your fingers, and when you engaged the lock, the click of it was as loud as a gunshot. 

Somewhere in the next room, the stranger was impossibly silent.

Maybe he really was drinking the stuff in that vial or maybe he was robbing you blind and setting your apartment on fire.

You snorted at the idea of someone robbing you; you'd always joke that if anyone ever broke into your apartment looking for money, you'd end up having to help them look for it.

But every night, before you left for work, you had taken the time to set up several booby traps, using primitive hunting techniques because you couldn't afford modern technology.

Nylon wire stretched taut across the floor of your kitchen, buckets full of broken glass meant to shower whoever opened a cabinet door too quickly; pretty meager defenses, but they were the only ones you had.

You sank down to the floor, your legs unable to carry your weight any longer.

Outside, you heard the sound of something tearing, and you could only hope that it was the stranger ripping open a pack of bandages, and not him going on a rampage on your couch.

It was beginning to sink in.

What have you done?

 _What have you done_?

Did you involve yourself in some sort of gang war? Was the man being hunted down by the mob? Was his face plastered across multiple sites, was there a bounty on his head?

Was there one on yours?

You hid your face in your hands.

Your fingers felt far too cold, your body too warm.

Several months ago, you had a customer who ordered the same kind of pizza every night. He was a recluse who lived on the very outskirts of Gotham City, all mussed hair and coke-bottle glasses. Cute, in a nerdy way. He always had a look about him, like he'd just rolled out of bed after staying up half the night writing poems to a dead lover or something equally romantic.

Every night at around nine, like clockwork, he'd phone Mama Mia’s and order his usual two boxes  of half-pepperoni, half-veggie pizzas. You'd always grumble because the distance usually made you late for your next delivery but the customer made up for it with huge tips.

Then one day, you opened the door to find him in a state of hysterics; his eyes wild and his room smelling like cigarette smoke.

He had been waving a USB around, had nearly hit you with it before you managed to calm him down. Turns out that he was a computer engineer, good with the kind of technical stuff that was alien to you. He'd uncovered what looked like a drug trading ring in the Diamond District; he said that he had enough evidence to implicate Oswald Cobblepot as head of the entire deal.

He shoved a hundred-dollar bill in your hand, told you to keep the change and rushed out the door.

You never saw him again.

When you'd tried asking his neighbors about him, they all pretended that he didn't exist.

Later, the building he lived in had been torn down.  

This was Gotham City, where the crime lords didn't just hide the body, they burned down the neighborhood to hide the evidence.

And if they did that to a computer engineer who found out what was basically an open secret, what would they do to a lowly pizza girl who saved their enemy?

Nothing good, you guessed.

There was the sound of crunching glass, the scrape of wood on wood, and you looked up just in time to see someone crawl into your bedroom window.

*********

The stranger didn't see you, it seemed, too busy trying to disarm the trap you'd set. It was a simple thing, a brick supposed fall on the head of whoever entered the window and broke the length of twine stretched across its bottom.

The trap didn’t seem to work on the intruder, however, he simply leapt through the hole he'd made in the window, landing silently on his feet, as silent as a ghost.

Unlike the masked man in your living room, who looked to be six feet of solid muscle, the intruder was lean, with the sort of grace that one would normally see on big cats.

Smaller didn't often mean less dangerous.

You rose slowly, trying to take advantage of the fact that you hadn't bothered to turn on your bedroom lights. His back was still turned to you, his fingers working steadily on the many knots that you'd use on your trap.

Was it your imagination or was that a bloodthirsty smile on his face? You imagined those deft fingers wrapped around your neck, squeezing and squeezing until your face turned black, until darkness crept into the edges of your vision, until you finally stopped struggling.

How long would it take before he killed you for good? A minute? Thirty? An hour? Two? Would your own body work against you then, prolonging the moment of death until it was all you could do but beg for a bullet in the head?

The thought _hurt_ and your chest _ached_. A full-body shudder went through you and it was just enough for the man to hear.

You barely registered the blue V stretched across his chest, the black domino mask that hid his features, the way his expression changed to surprise, before you grabbed your Taser and fired.

********

What happened in the next few seconds came too quickly for you to process. The man dodged out of the way of the oncoming Taser dart, a quick, one-step movement that almost seemed like the beginning of a dance.

His hand was a blur as he aimed a small gun at you and fired in retaliation. You only had time to scream before you felt something coil around your wrist.

 _Not a gun then_ , was your first wild thought.

Then a sudden tug ripped the Taser from your hands and a second one sent you careening straight into the intruder. You had just enough time to register his oncoming fist before pain exploded in your face.

Hot blood cascaded down your cheeks, your lips, and you found yourself struggling to breathe out of a broken nose.

“Wait—” the intruder stopped when he should be, by all rights, going in for the kill.

You heard the clicking of a light switch and you found yourself staring up into the concerned face of your intruder.

For a single minute the two you stared at each other, just taking the other person in. You saw the way his eyes raked over your uniform, the way he seemed to recategorize you as “gang member” to “delivery girl”.

He didn't look like a hardened criminal, all bright blue eyes and a mop of shaggy black hair that would have looked cute on anyone other than the guy who just broke your nose. The black domino mask he wore failed to hide the high cheekbones, the fine structure of his face.

The man who broke into your house looked like he belonged on a catwalk, not in some Gotham gang.

He opened his mouth, once, twice, but no words came out.

You clapped your hands over your nose, both to staunch the bleeding and to prevent the man from seeing anything he shouldn't.

“You're… not what I expected,” he began.

“To be fair, I didn't expect you to dodge that Taser either, “ you said sourly. Your words came out slurred and when you spoke, the coppery taste of blood filled your mouth. It wasn't an unfamiliar taste, not by a long shot, but it brought back bad memories, and you found yourself wanting to spit.

“You're…not one of Nicovante’s goons, are you? “ the intruder said slowly.

You gave him a look; underneath your fingers, your broken nose _throbbed_ . “Did the ineptitude give it away?”

“No. I have a… friend in trouble. His tracker led me here.” His gaze roamed across the small room, and his hands fluttered, restless.

You stared at the man. While he didn't dress like any gang member that you knew, anyone could put on a spandex outfit and pretend to be someone else’s friend. 

“Get out of here,” you said coldly. “I live alone.”

The man stiffened. “He's my friend. I won't hurt him. Really.”

“Good for you,” you drawled. “Now get out of here before I call the police.”

“I.." The man's hands closed into fists and you tensed, expecting another fight. Another fight that you had no illusions of winning.

Maybe if you screamed _really fucking loudly_ … Loud enough for the neighbors to hear, loud enough for someone to call the cops.

“I don't have time for this," the intruder muttered, pushing past you, hand already on the doorknob before you could protest.

“Red Hood!" he yelled, throwing open the door. His voiced bounced off the wooden walls, and you could have sworn you saw a flash of red in the darkness.

You dove for the Taser; it was practically useless to you in a fight with this man, but it was the only weapon you had.

You rose, fingers tight against the small weapon, your heart beating against your chest like a wild bird. One hand was still clamped over your nose to stop the bleeding. Your breaths were warm, wet things, spewing blood whenever you exhaled.

“Get out of my house,” you bit out.

The man turned back to you, his face expressionless.

“He’s gone.”

You blinked. Sometimes, time felt like it moved too fast and you were left behind, blinking in the dust and trying to make sense of what was happening.

You allowed yourself a second, two before you reacted.

“ _What?”_  You had to stand on your toes to look over his shoulder, but he was right. The first aid kit had been opened, several packets of bandages opened. On the center table in front of your couch, an empty vial gleamed in the moonlight. The guns you had left on your dining table were gone.

“He’s...I saw him a few minutes ago...he was in no condition to leave!” you said. Your imagination was already ahead of you, conjuring up another dark alley, another set of goons. Another dead man.

It seemed like you haven’t saved anyone at all, the best thing you did was prolong the execution.

The intruder spoke again, “I…think it’s because he heard me.”

You glared at him, your Taser still trained on him. “Running away isn’t the sort of thing you’d do if you heard a ‘friend’ in the next room.”

It was probably the worst thing in the world you could have said, and the man flinched like he’d been struck.

“No,” he said, his voice hollow. “No, it’s not.”

The way he said it—gutted, that was the word for it. Like someone had taken a knife to his belly and his intestines were spilling all over the floor. You felt a flash of guilt, one that you quickly smothered.

Why should you care what he felt? He climbed into your window, he broke your nose; you should feel _happy_ that he was distracted. You should be taking advantage of the situation, you should be shooting him with your Taser!

But your finger remained frozen on the trigger.

The man tilted his head, almost as if he was listening for something.

“I...need to go. I need to find him.” he said, almost as if in a daze.

“Yeah, no,” you said, stepping in his way, Taser raised. “He just ran away from you, doesn’t seem like he wants to be near you anytime soon.”

To your surprise, he agreed. “But that doesn’t mean that Red Hood doesn’t need my help.”

Again with that name.

“Red Hood...that’s his name, huh?” you said slowly. You’d never heard of it before.

A flash of white teeth, an almost-smile from the man, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “He...doesn’t exactly advertise what he’s doing. But he’s one of the good guys.”

He hesitated, before adding. “You did a good thing tonight.”

You flinched when the man reached into his belt, ready to fight at the first sign of a knife or a gun.

But instead, it was a pack of gauze, the clean whiteness of it a stark contrast against the black of his suit.

“Here,” he said kindly, gesturing towards your face. “For your nose, you’re getting blood everywhere.”

You stared at him, trying to decide if he was sincere.

“I’d feel better if you took it,” he insisted.

“I’m not really here to make you feel better,” you said, taking a step back. “I’ll be fine. Better if you leave my house _right now._ ”  

Blood seeped between your fingers, trickled down your arm, dripped onto the floor.

Instead, the man pried open your hand, the one still holding the Taser—his fingers felt unnaturally strong—and pressed the gauze into it.

“Keep pressure on it. And lean forward so you won’t swallow any blood. You might need a doctor to check it out, see if it sets correctly. And by the way,” he added. “Tasers are usually only good for one shot.”

Yours was good for three, at least that’s what the man you had purchased it from had told you.

“I’ll leave now,” he said, walking to the window. “Look if you’re planning on going to a doctor, I’ll foot the bill.”

You scowled, wanting to throw his stupid gauze back in his face.

“Yeah, how’re you planning to do that? Show up to the emergency room in full costume?”

Again, that impish smile, a half-hearted wave. “I’ll find a way.”

Before you could say anything in response, he threw himself from your window and you knew that there was no point in following him. You’d heard enough stories about Batman disappearing mid-conversation. It seemed like your intruder went to the same school of theatrics.

You hoped that whatever instrument he’s using to break his fall would malfunction. Not that you wanted him to die. But a broken leg wouldn’t hurt.

Then there was only silence and the ticking of your wristwatch. The buzzing of your phone in your pocket.

You waited for five minutes until you were perfectly sure you were alone. Then you removed your hand from your still-bleeding nose.

You took a deep breath; inhale, _one two three four five,_ exhale, _six seven eight nine ten._

And you concentrated.

The bleeding slowed, then stopped, leaving your face caked with dried blood. Breathing was easier.

The next part was harder. You sighed as you felt broken skin reknit itself, fractured nasal bones reset themselves. Odd crackling sounds came as your nose began to heal, and you prayed that it didn’t mean that something was going wrong.

All in all, the process took around half an hour and when you looked in the mirror to inspect your face, it looked the same as it always did, as if it had never been broken.

And then there was nothing else to do but clean up the blood, the discarded bits of packaging, and hope that this was the last time you’ll encounter either of those men.

 


	5. Good Deeds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, once again thank you to everyone who has read, kudosed and commented on this series. The amount of comments on the last chapter was unreal. Thank you so much for your support! This one took a lot of my time; a lot of nights writing and a shitton of research, went into it. I can honestly say it's worth it for such lovely readers. I'm a bit nervous for the first half of the chapter; I certainly hope I got it right.
> 
> Once again, a huge thanks to Mister Pseudonymous, without whom the first part of the chapter might have never taken off.
> 
> And to my beta, paradise-runway, who continues to be fast, accurate, and patient with my shitty first drafts.
> 
> This chapter took so long to write I stopped measuring it by time and started measuring it by the number of times it made me eat/drink my frustration.
> 
> Basically, this chapter took one and a half bottles of wine to make.

> “We would frequently be ashamed of our good deeds if people saw all of the motives that produced them. ” _Francois de la Rochefoucauld_

_*****_

He woke up to the roar of thunder.  

_Pitter-patter._ Raindrops on the roof. Something’s leaking; cold water ran down the side of his face, right across the J burned into his cheek. His mouth felt too dry, his heart beating too fast. When he moved, something in his side _burned,_ the remnants of the bullet that had nearly torn through his organs had it not been for the cheap body armor he had managed to scrounge up.

Somewhere in the distance, someone’s laughing. 

For the second time that day, Jason Todd thought that he was dying.

Then lightning flashed and for a second, the room was lit up in a brilliant, cold glow.

The room was empty. Jason was alone.

_No one’s laughing,_ he thought. _No one._

He sat up, grimacing at the dull pain that shot up his side.

Ceramic body armor was built to shatter on impact, spread the force of the bullet across its frame. Effective, but it wasn’t built for multiple hits. 

It was just Jason’s fucking luck that he got into a fight with the most trigger-happy bunch of assholes in East End.

And the fear toxin.

A nasty cocktail of drugs built to overload the system with adrenaline until their heart gave out.

Every time Jason encountered it, it just kept getting nastier.

When he looked down, he could see that his fingers were still shaking. If he squinted, he could make out the darker patches of skin across his hands; knots of scar tissue that on cold days like this, made him clumsy even without the remnants of fear toxin still coursing in his veins.

He made himself place two fingers against his neck, feeling for his carotid pulse, careful not to disturb the ring of indented flesh that wound around his neck like a snake.

Jason breathed deeply, made himself count.

Sixty-five beats per minute. Too high for someone who had just been sleeping, but considering that he’d been exposed to fear toxin in the past twenty-four hours, it was a number that he could live with.

He had another vial of fear toxin antidote tucked in one of the pouches of his belt, but Jason wanted to conserve it, in case he needed it in the future.

Something had woken him up.

Well, something other than the cold and the _damned roof leaking on his face._

In the darkness, the red of his helmet seemed to glow.

The sound of static filled the room, followed by Oracle’s panicked voice.

“Red Hood? Red Hood? Are you there?”

For a moment, Jason was tempted not to answer, tempted to roll over in bed and pull the sheets over his head, maybe try and catch some actual sleep—one that wasn’t plagued with nightmares.

“Red Hood? Jason, _please_ _—_ ”

A slight jolt went through him at the sound of his name; had they been out in the field, he would never have heard the end of Batman’s lecture on the importance of _field names_ and _protecting your identity._

But Batman wasn’t here, he hadn’t been for the past six years.

The notion was enough to get Jason out of bed, reaching out for his helmet.

His fingers felt awkward, still trembling from the after-effects of the fear toxin. If his helmet hadn’t already been broken, he would have worried about it slipping from his hands and breaking.

“Oracle, I’m here.” His throat felt like it had been rubbed raw with sandpaper. When he licked his lips, he could feel the cracks in them.

How long had it been since he had something to drink?

“Jason! Thank God, Dick’s been worried sick about you. I had to stop him from going over Gotham with a fine-toothed comb.”

The information made Jason check the tracker on his belt. Whenever they went on patrol, Batman always made sure that they had trackers on them.

_A lot of good that did you, though,_ a snide voice in the back of his head said.

The trackers were all fully functional, minus the one he wore on his jacket. Jason was pretty sure that it was now a pile of ash, along with the rest of his equipment in East End.

“You’d think that he’d have found me by now,” Jason said. Nightwing had found him quickly enough in New Gotham last night.

Jason felt a flash of guilt, burrowing deep in his gut. He shouldn’t have left.

He had heard the initial fight, the sound of cracking glass, the sound of footsteps on hard wooden floors, your scream.

But when he had heard Nightwing’s voice, something in him cowered. Like an insect scurrying away from a beam of light, something in him had Jason scrambling out of the sofa and climbing out of the nearest window.

In the back of his throat, he could taste bile.

Whenever he saw Batman’s Golden Boy, he still saw Joker’s thugs, sometimes dressed as Robin, sometimes as Nightwing.

Mostly as Batman.

If he saw Nightwing, Jason thought that he might just vomit.

“I didn’t tell him where you were,” Oracle said.

Jason blinked, thinking that maybe he didn’t hear it right. “Why?”

Despite the low quality of the call, he was pretty sure that he just heard Oracle snort.

“Why? Jason, you ran away from him! That generally isn’t something you’d do if you wanted to see someone.”

“Well, you’re right. I _didn’t_ want to see him,” Jason muttered.

“He was worried about you, Dick begged me to give him your coordinates.” Oracle’s voice softened. “What happened?”

He still smelled of smoke.

“One of Nicovante’s gangs,” he muttered, and he could feel his face heating up. “Ambushed me. Burned some of my safehouses in East End.”

They had burned most of his equipment too, would have burned him too if he hadn’t been woken up by the smell of smoke.

Jason’s stomach clenched as he waited for Barbara to answer, for the harsh words, the reprimands, the disappointment that had always left him cold.

The scar on his face felt hot, burning, and he resisted the urge to clap a hand over it, hands curling tightly against his helmet.

He could almost hear Batman’s words, he could almost hear him say how _Nightwing could have done it better, your replacement could have done better._

“Are you alright? Do you need help?” Barbara’s voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and clean, letting him focus.

“I’m fine. Only got away with minor injuries.” His side still hurt like hell where the bullets had punched into his body armor, but none of them had gotten through. Still, Jason suspected that he’ll spend that he was going to spend the next several days hobbling around like an old man.

“Where are you now?”  

“I’m in a safe house in New Gotham,” he said.

Jason didn’t want to say anymore; how his safe house wasn’t really safe at all—it was a wooden shack that groaned and creaked with every odd wind that blew past it, how most of his gear had been in the safehouses in East End, how he’ll probably spend the next few weeks scrounging up replacements.

If he told Oracle that, she’d probably insist on sending Nightwing—or worse, _Robin,_ and he really didn’t feel like seeing either of them.

There was a pause before she spoke again, and he could almost see her biting down on her lip, trying to suppress the torrent of questions that she no doubt had.

“Jason,” she asked. “Are you safe?”

Now it was Jason’s turn to snort. “Safe” was pretty fucking relative, in his opinion.

He had his guns, his busted up helmet and a place to hide in.

When he had been a kid on the streets, that would have been more than enough.

As Red Hood though, that wouldn’t be enough. When he had killed several gang leaders in East End, Jason had not expected the remaining members to band together and come after him.

Usually, once their leaders had been killed, the members would disperse, either into smaller, less organized groups or they would join some of the bigger gangs that Jason hadn’t started targeting yet.

He guessed that it was too much to hope for that they’d stop selling young kids to some of the sickest bastards in Gotham.

“Jason?” Oracle prompted.

“I’m fine for now,” he said. “Need to do some reconnaissance of the members that attacked me last night. Oracle, they were using fear toxin.”

“I know, Tim pulled two of them off an old lady last night, they were using it to torment her.”

Jason felt a flash of irritation at the mention of his replacement. _Well, of fucking course Robin was already on top it._

“Scarecrow’s still in the asylum. I need to find out where they’re getting it. What they’re planning to do with it. And…” Jason hesitated.

Oracle was a godsend, sure; she helped keep both Nightwing and _Robin_ off his tail, but Jason knew that she was reporting to them as well.

How else was Nightwing able to find him so quickly?

“Jason.” Oracle’s voice was soft. “It’s okay to ask.”

“Someone pulled me out of East End, last night. Took me back to her apartment, if she was telling the truth.”

“That makes sense. Your trackers led us to an apartment in New Gotham last night,” Oracle supplied. “And Dick did mention meeting someone, well, getting into a fistfight with them, more like. He said she was wearing a uniform from a fast food joint.”

“I heard her scream. Just before I left.” Guilt twisted in his gut, burning hot.

“That would be Dick. He thought she was a gang member and broke her nose.”

A broken nose. The tightness in Jason’s chest eased, he could live with that. Better a broken nose than a bullet to the head, better Nightwing than some straggler from Nicovante’s gang, bent on taking revenge on his dead boss’s behalf.

After several minutes of silence, Oracle added, “She probably works at Mamma Mia’s, you remember that old Italian restaurant we used to order takeout from?”

In the back of his mind, Jason _did_ remember.

During the rare times when he hadn’t been busy playing catch-up with whatever lessons Batman had wanted him to study, he remembered settling down in front of a giant television with Oracle, sometimes Nightwing, too. Alfred hovering somewhere in the background, trying to conceal his disapproval at the amount of junk food they were eating.

But instead, he said, “No, I don’t. How are you so sure that’s where she works?”

Despite the poor quality of the call, he could almost hear Oracle’s smug smile. “As far as I know, only two fast food restaurants still deliver to East End. A pizza joint called Mamma Mia’s and a Chinese restaurant called Fat Chow. Fat Chow is currently closed down for renovations. It wasn’t that hard. Do you want the address?”

He did. But Jason figured that he probably owed enough to Oracle at this point.

“No. I can find it on my own.” A quick glance outside told him that the rain had turned into a light drizzle, the cold, however, seemed to seep into all the little cracks in his safehouse. His hands felt stiff, heavy. When he flexed them, he could feel the tight skin resisting and he grimaced.

As if he needed more reasons to hate cold weather.

“That’s fine.”

He was just about to cut the comm line when he heard Oracle’s voice.

“Jason, could you do me a favor?”

A lump grew in his throat and he could feel the brand on his face itching.

_I just need a teensy-weensy favor, Todders. We’re partners, after all. Partners tell each other things. Tell me: who’s the Bat?_

Another burst of static, Oracle’s voice cutting through his thoughts, as clean as a surgical knife.

“Would you mind replying to Dick’s texts? He’s been going up the wall with worry.”

The tightness in his throat eased. “Nightwing’s texts?”

He hadn’t thought to check his phone; Oracle usually communicated with him using private lines in his helmet.

Well, Jason figured that he did owe Oracle for the information.

“Okay. I’ll do that.”

There was a brief exhale at the end of the line, one that could have been a sigh.

“Thank you, Jason.” A moment’s pause. “You know that this line is secure, right? You can call me Barba—” Jason cut off the call before she could finish her sentence.

No. He couldn’t call them that.

The ache in his side was pulsing, the pain as steady as a heartbeat. His fingers left imprints on the surface of his mask; he could see his that fingers trembling again.

Throwing his cracked mask onto the bed, Jason hobbled onto the nearest table, where his phone and his guns lay. The dark metal gleamed oddly in the low light and Jason couldn’t help but scowl at them.

When he had lost consciousness, you had taken his guns away.

The backs of his hands itched, wanting to reach for them, feel the familiar weight in his hands. He wasn’t helpless. Not when he was holding them.

But instead, Jason made himself reach for his phone.

Twenty four messages. Six missed calls.

He snorted. Trust Nightwing to go overboard with his messages.

He scrolled through some of the messages: “ _Babs wont give me ur coordinates. U ok?”, “Json, its been 4 hrs, pls reply if u get dis.”, “Babs says ur probably ok, but Ill feel better if i get a response from u.”_

Most of the texts seemed more of the same, except for the last one, which sent another wave of guilt rolling through him.

_“I understand if u dont want to see me or talk to me. Just stay safe lil wing.”_

His finger hovered over the ‘delete’ icon; Jason usually erased messages as soon as he read them. Nothing to clog up his text history, nothing to read on the off-chance someone got a hold of his phone.

But instead, Jason found himself typing out a reply; the process was painstakingly slow, his fingers feeling stiff and clumsy.

_“I’m fine. Now stop blowing up my phone with your messages.”_

It took less than five minutes before Nightwing replied, four messages one after the other.

_Oh thank god ur ok._

_Its safe wer u r ryt?_

_Hope ur doing well after last nyt._

_Thanks for replying._

Well, Oracle only asked Jason to reply to Nightwing’s messages. She didn’t tell him to start a fucking conversation. He’d done his good deed for the day.

The phone joined his cracked mask on the bed.

Outside, the rain seemed to have stopped, a rare moment for Gotham City, whose weather seemed to have only three settings: raining, storming or just about to rain.

Back when he had been Robin, he remembered the cold, wet nights he had spent patrolling with Batman. At times, the water had felt like shards of ice digging into his skin.

Jason remembered how hard he had clenched his jaw, trying to keep his teeth from chattering, trying to show Batman that he could handle this.

Hell, he even remembered the small glow of pride he had felt when he saw the small nod Batman had tossed his way.

And no matter how late they came back from patrol, Alfred had always been there to greet them; eyes bleary from exhaustion, but still ready with something warm to drink and the warmest, fluffiest towels Jason had ever touched.

_They weren’t all bad days,_ Jason thought. _Not all of them._

It was this thought that Jason Todd kept to himself, as he opened the doors to his safehouse and, maskless, walked out into Gotham City.

*********

It was the kind of day where everything seemed lazy.

Rain fell sporadically, sometimes falling hard enough that you thought that investing in an ark was starting to sound like a good idea, sometimes falling light enough that narrow beams of sunlight would be able to pierce through the rain clouds. 

Smoke from Lydia’s cigarettes wafted up the ceiling, followed by her throaty laughter as she plied another customer for tips.

The odd _schlop-schlop-schlop_ of a mop wiping the floor free of muddy shoe prints, only to have it dirtied again when a new customer entered the place.

Every now and again, you heard the kitchen’s ovens open and then slam shut; at least Ant was being kept busy.

“Nothing for me?” you asked Lydia as she passed by. A five-dollar bill jutted out of her pocket; scrawled across it was what looked to be someone’s number.

“‘Fraid not,” she said. Her voice, which should’ve been damaged from long years of chain smoking, had a low, purring quality to it.

You’d seen her extract twenty dollar tips from truckers who had come in wanting only a cup of coffee and someone to talk to using nothing but her voice.

Lydia paused at the table where you were currently sulking at, a single eyebrow raised at you.

The top two buttons of her blouse were undone, and you wondered if you should tell her about it or if she did it herself.

“You know, I’m surprised at you, after all the worry that you caused Ant and me last night, I’d have thought you’d enjoy some peace and quiet.”

“Peace and quiet don’t pay the bills,” you grumbled. “I need orders. Tips. Speaking of which, how did Lou take me going off last night?”

The barest hint of a smile graced Lydia’s face, “You’re fine. Lou didn’t find out.”

A small thrill went through you at her words, and you lifted your face off of the grimy table.

“You covered for me last night?” you asked hopefully.

As far as you knew, Lydia didn’t drive and she didn’t own a car, one of the reasons why you got the job instead.

Lydia flicked her fingers in an impatient gesture. “Ant did. I spent the night working the register, the kitchens _and_ waitressing. Luckily, we only had one other customer come in last night. You’re welcome.”

You frowned. “ _Ant_ made the deliveries?”

Ant was the cook for Mamma Mia’s and he rarely left the kitchens, except during the rare times when Lydia had trouble dealing with a rowdy customer. One look at him was enough to shut most people up; tall, muscular, and heavily tattooed, Ant looked less like a cook and more like a bouncer for one of Gotham’s seedier nightclubs.

“Yeah, believe it or not, he _can_ get out the kitchen,” Lydia paused. “He was worried about you last night.”

The corners of your mouth twitched; you would have smiled if you hadn’t felt so tired.

“And where was Lou?” you asked..

Lou was the spoiled son of the owner of Mamma Mia’s, currently working at the restaurant at his mother’s insistence.

“To get to know the staff”, you had heard her tell him once.

Well, you didn’t think that getting to know the staff would help him much, because you were pretty sure that the moment Lou actually was in charge of Mamma Mia’s, the entire staff would quit.

“Out in the back, getting high off his tits with something. He told me it was Venom, I told him it was most likely someone’s piss dyed green.” Lydia faked a yawn. “Same old, same old.”

She glanced carelessly behind her at the remaining customer—a grizzly old truck driver bent over the newspaper—and then seated herself across you.

With practiced hands, she plied open the glass window just a tiniest bit and then lit a cigarette.

You knew Lydia’s rituals well enough that you didn’t even bother protesting.

The tip of the cigarette glowed as she inhaled deeply, blowing smoke out of the crack in the window.

Manicured fingers tap, tap, tapped the stick gently and ash fell on the off-white tiles.

Across the room, you saw Sam shoot the older woman a glare.

“You owe me, you know,” Lydia said. “Well, me and Ant, really, but you know how he is, not much of a talker.”

Well, you _did_ owe them, there wasn’t any point in arguing with her about that.

“What do you want?” you said wearily. “If you want me to treat you guys to dinner or something, you’re out of luck. Most of my salary’s gonna go to making sure I’ll have electricity for the rest of the month.”

That and you had just agreed to give Lou to give him half of your month’s salary under the table, so Sam could start her so-called “trial phase” as a dishwasher

You thought Lisabet was going to kiss you when you had come to pick her up that morning.

The kid seemed determined not to disappoint, whenever she was finished with her dishwashing duties, she’d always seem to find something else to do: wiping the tables, taking out the trash, cleaning the muddied floors. You had half a mind to tell her to relax, but she seemed to be enjoying herself.

But every time you looked at her mask, you couldn’t help the small shiver that ran up your spine.

The air pollution in Gotham was bad enough that it wasn’t uncommon for people to wear masks, so Sam’s bright yellow surgical mask didn’t really attract attention.

But every time you looked at it, you were reminded of Lisabet’s story, of Nicovante’s men pulling out the teeth of the younger prostitutes.

You couldn’t help but wonder what they’d do to _you_ if they find out what you’d done. You’d been shot before, yes, a single bullet to the chest, and you’d barely crawled away from _that._

Three days of constant, unceasing _agony_ , all with the knowledge that the moment you passed out, the moment you were unable to keep your body healing itself, you would bleed out.

A bullet to the head sounded like something much more permanent.

“Hey, you all right?” Lydia’s voice broke you out of your thoughts. “Christ, lighten up. I wasn’t going to ask you for your first born kid or anything. But, you have to tell me what happened to you last night.”

You blinked.

That actually didn’t sound too bad; as far as you knew, Lydia detested the Gotham underground, going so far as to try and talk to the owner of Mamma Mia’s to blacklist most of their haunts from your delivery route. Plus, she had lived in Gotham City all her life, at the very least she might have an idea of who the Red Hood was.  

“From the look on your face, I can tell that it’s something juicy,” the waitress drawled, leaning back in her seat. “But I’m not finished, you have tell me what happened last night _and_ you have to tell me what’s up with the squirt.” Lydia jabbed a thumb in Sam’s direction. Her voice carried across the small diner, and Sam shot her another nasty look.

“We needed a new dishwasher, I found one,” you said, hoping she wouldn’t press the issue.

“She looks fucking ten.”

“I can _hear_ you,” Sam interjected. Her voice had an odd lisp to it that made her hard to understand. You could see her face coloring as she spoke; the girl was obviously aware of how she sounded.

The truck driver looked up from his newspaper at the sound of her voice, but then shrugged and went back to reading.

Lydia looked unfazed, “Well then, maybe you should get over here and introduce yourself.”

In response, the younger girl looked pointedly at the mop she was holding.

“Take a break, then. You haven’t sat down since you got here. Besides,” Lydia added as she tapped the window. Raindrops were beginning to splatter the panes. “It’s only going to get dirty again.”

Sam hesitated and shot a questioning glance in your direction.

You shrugged, at the rate she was going, she was going to wear herself out before the day was done.

The girl made a fuss of putting away the mop, which you were pretty sure hadn’t seen that much use since the janitor took off with the contents of the register. Lou had sworn that he was going to do a thorough background check on the next one, but five months later, he still hadn’t made good on his promise.

“You sure this is okay?” Sam asked, taking a seat next to you. “I’m not going to get in trouble or anything, am I?”

Lydia grimaced. “Hell, our so-called boss takes nine-hour breaks. You’re pretty safe. 

“Nine-hour…?” Again, Sam looked at you for reassurance.

“Lou’s usually too high to notice anything,” you explained. “Only time he actually ever does anything is when his mother’s around. Lydia keeps the place running.”

The waitress blew a smoke ring in your direction. “You flatter me, kid.”

“She’ll take care of you while I’m doing deliveries,” you went on. “And when things get too rowdy, send out Ant. He can handle anything short of a nuclear bomb.”

“Rowdy?” Sam’s eyes went wide, the effect almost cartoonishly adorable when combined with the big smile stitched into her mask. “Like a shootout?”

She craned her neck to look at people who were hanging outside of the diner, using the awning to keep themselves out of the light rain.

Lydia frowned at you. “Seriously, where did you pick this kid _up_?”

You remembered Lisabet’s warnings about certain places to avoid in East End, and you couldn’t help but wonder just how “rowdy” Sam’s life actually was.

“She’s one of Lisabet’s girls,” you said by way of explanation. The waitress knew of the old prostitute from the stories you told, though they had never met each other.

A manicured hand slapped down hard on the surface of the table, the sound it made loud enough that both you and Sam jumped in your seat.

“She’s like _fucking ten_!”

“I’m fourteen!” Sam said indignantly.

“And that makes it any better?” Lydia snorted. “I didn’t realize that Lisabet was working with kids.”

“She isn't, that’s why Sam’s working here,” you explained. “Well, it’s more of a trial phase, really,”

“A trial phase,” the waitress repeated. “What the hell is a trial phase?”

It meant that Lou was going to get half of your month’s salary to give Sam a part-time job, but you weren’t going to say that.

“He wants to make sure that she’s a “hard worker”,” you said.  

“Right, because _he_ doesn’t spend half of his time shooting up on something,” Lydia said sarcastically. “Well, you’re here now. Just pull your own weight and we’ll get along fine.”

The waitress leaned forward in her seat, jabbing the still-lit cigarette in your direction. Bits of ash fluttered to the surface of the table. “Now, I believe _you_ owe me a story, after the hassle you put us through last night. Where the hell did you disappear to?” 

“You were fine when you left us last night. Did something happen?” Sam asked.

“Yeah a very big something,” you muttered.

_I brought an injured man back to my apartment and now I’m scared that the gangs he’s at war with will come after me._

“Was it the Ghost?” Sam whispered, her eyes wide. Underneath the table, you could feel her hand gripping your knee. She looked too young to be fourteen.

You were starting to wish it _was_ the Ghost; at least you have _heard_ of him.

Large droplets of rain splattered across the window, and you looked out just in time to see a torrent once again fall on the streets of Gotham. Through the window, you could see people hastily opening their umbrellas or running towards the nearest shelter.

A glance at the glass door outside told you that a lot more people were now huddled under the awning of Mamma Mia’s. Even from a distance, you could see a blonde jogger whose white shirt now looked translucent because of the rain.

You nudged Sam.

“Promise you won’t go and fetch your mop if I let them in?” you asked. “I still have to tell my story.”

The younger girl nodded, eyes wide.

“They look _freezing,_ ” she said. With her voice so low, her lisp was even more pronounced, making _freezing_ sound like _phweesing._

You paused just outside of the door, taking note of the people outside. There was the blonde jogger, shivering in her soaked clothes. A short man in a trenchcoat. An old woman, also in jogging attire. Another man wearing a red jacket, just at the edge of the awning, surely getting sprayed by the rain.

There was no way of knowing that they were members of some gang.

Just the other day, there was a news story about a little old lady driving off armed robbers from her house with nothing but her cane and a can of mace. You had to be tough to live in Gotham City.

Muttering a quick prayer to whoever might be listening, you opened the door and stepped outside.

“Hey,” you said loudly so that your voice could be heard above the sound of the rain.

Several people turned to you, including the blonde jogger and the short man, though the old lady and the man in the red jacket didn’t move.

You jerked your thumb back to gesture to Mamma Mia’s.

“You can stay inside and warm up if you want,” you said. “Don’t worry, we’re not going to make you order anything; just try not to get too much mud on the floors.”

The blonde jogger was the first through the door, muttering a hasty, “Thank you.” between her chattering teeth.

The man in the trenchcoat soon followed her and you watched his eyes light up at the sight of Lydia, who had stood up and was offering the blonde jogger a jacket.

The two other people under awning still hadn’t moved.

Maybe the old lady was having hearing troubles; you could see her rocking gently on her heels as she stared out onto the streets.

You went over to her, tapping her on the shoulder gently so you wouldn’t startle her.

“Ma’am?” you tried. “You can stay inside if you want. It’s warmer there.”

The old woman turned to you with a big smile; you couldn’t help but think of Sam when you saw the lady’s white, white teeth.

“Thank you, I’ll come inside in a few minutes. I like the rain,” she said. She had no lisp when she spoke either.

That left the man in the red jacket; his hands were stuffed in his pockets, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he had a gun in there.

Or maybe his hands were just cold. Maybe you were just being paranoid.

“Hey,” you called, raising your voice so that you could be heard above the sound of the rain.

You suppressed the urge to shiver; your cheap uniform provided little protection against the cold.

The man still didn’t move; his face was turned away from you, staring at a store across the street.

Perhaps the man hadn’t heard you, you thought to yourself as you approached him. The bottoms of his shoes were getting wet from the rain splatter.

“Hey,” you tried again, this time with an accompanying tap on the man’s arm. “I’m from the diner, you can come in if you—”

The words died in your throat when the man turned to face you. On his left cheek was a brand, a burn scar that pulled at the skin around it, making it look tight, painful. It was in the shape of a J.

_What kind of sick fuck would do that?_

You realized that the man was staring at you, waiting for you to finish your sentence.

_He had blue eyes._

The same color as the man in the red mask. A quick glance at his hair told you that he had the same hair color, too. You couldn’t help the small step back that you took.

_Shit, shit, shit._

The man’s mouth twisted, as if he was in pain, and he hastily dropped his eyes.

And for some reason, the action made you think of Sam, who wore a mask to cover her mouth, who seemed ashamed every time she spoke.

If you hadn’t met her through Lisabet, would you have been one of those people who made her uncomfortable with herself? Stared at her until she felt the need to cover herself up?

Heat swept across your face at the thought.

“Hey, uh...if I made you uncomfortable or anything, I’m sorry. You reminded me of someone, that’s all. Listen, if you want to come inside to get out of the rain, you can. We won’t charge you or anything.”

You were being stupid, you thought angrily. A lot of people had blue eyes and black hair, hell, the guy who broke into your house last night also had blue eyes and black hair.

It was stupid to jump to conclusions based on such flimsy evidence, especially in Gotham City, where a lot of men seemed to share the same traits.

The man seemed to deliberate on what you just said.

“I’ll come in later.” After a moment’s pause, he added. “Thank you.”

You shrugged. “No problem. Just come inside when you feel like it.”

****

“Done your good deed for the day?” Lydia said sarcastically as you approached.

The glass door creaked on its hinges as the man in the jacket entered, his damp shoes smearing mud all over the tiles.

Sam wisely didn’t say anything.

You settled down in your seat, ignoring the waitress’s biting remarks.

“Still want to know what happened to me last night?” you asked.

There was a creak of leather as Lydia leaned forward, her eyes shining with interest.

“Do tell,” she purred, a low voice she mostly reserved for difficult customers.

“Ever heard of someone called the Red Hood?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normal resting heart rate for a normal person is around 60-100 beats per minute, so Jason’s 65 isn’t actually that high. However, for trained athletes, a resting heart rate would be lower. Now, while this was confirmed by some sources I’ve read, I can’t seem to find anything that gives a direct number, other than this[ website](http://www.topendsports.com/testing/heart-rate-resting-chart.htm), which...honestly doesn’t look all that reliable, but it’s the best I’ve got at around 49-55 beats per minute. But if anyone’s got any better sources, or can even outright say I’m wrong with backed-up facts, I’d be happy to change the number, since most of my research was stopped by pay gates.
> 
> Also, just thought I should share, since someone should share in my pain.  
>  _I lost three pages worth of research on Scarecrow's fear toxin_. Wrote it up on Notepad, had everything from the real-life drugs I used as a basis, how it worked, what the Batfam use to counteract its effects, the artistic liberties I took while creating its properties, and some of the sources I used. 
> 
> Was gonna post it on Tumblr, too, as a reference to anyone who might be interested, and _so I'd never lose it_. Then my computer randomly shut down. 
> 
> Ouch.


	6. No Small Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative chapter name number one: Morveren reads too much Laini Taylor. Unexpected stealth romance ensues.
> 
> Really, though, this was originally going to be such a non-romance chapter that Jason wasn’t even supposed to be in it.
> 
> Alternative chapter name number two: oh God, this is going to be another monster of a chapter, isn’t it?
> 
> Alternative chapter name number three: Amateur writer has to write a shitton of pages. Runs out of wine. Send help. 
> 
> Also, who else had a mini-heart attack when AO3 went down this morning? I know I did. 
> 
> A big thanks, as always to paradise-runway, for her talents as a beta. And of course, to Mister Pseudonymous, for her help brainstorming this chapter.
> 
> Once again, thank you to everyone who has read, kudosed and commented this fic. I have to admit that every chapter is a struggle to write, not least because I’m averaging like, 20 pages per chapter. But you readers make the whole thing worth it.

 

 

> "It was no small thing to shed a lifetime of nonbeing and suddenly be seen." Strange the Dreamer, _Laini Taylor_

*********

“Ever heard of someone called the Red Hood?”

Jason felt the muscles in his back tighten at the name, felt the familiar twinge of pain in his right shoulder.

He knew that Oracle did her best to keep his name off the papers and the online blogs, but there was no way to keep rumors from spreading. Sometimes, on patrol, he would hear some of the gang members talking about him, in the same hushed tones that they used whenever they talked about Batman.

He still wasn’t exactly sure how he felt about it.

There was the sound of shoes hitting the floor and someone yelled, “ _Yes!_ ”

It was a female with a lisp who spoke, maybe the young girl who was with you. Several of the other customers looked in their direction, and Jason thought it was safe to chance a look.

It _was_ the girl you were with, brown hair and a bright yellow mask across her face. She was standing up, fist punched into the air. Though the mask obscured her mouth, Jason thought that maybe she was smiling. She looked slightly familiar.

Jason heard a lilting laugh and he wondered if it was yours.

“Looks like someone has a story,” someone said. Not you then, someone with a deeper voice, maybe the waitress

He had taken a seat right next to a window so he could see the people outside. If anyone was going to attack the diner, he’d see them coming.

The waitress spoke again, “I’ve heard of the Red Hood. Did he kill anyone in front of you?”

Jason’s stomach tightened, the back of his mouth tasted bitter.

Your voice, high-pitched, tense. “He _kills_ people?”

He had to wonder if you regretted helping him; that sounded about right. For a moment, Jason felt laughter bubble up his throat, thick and bitter.

Jason wondered if that was what everyone thought of him.

“Only the bad ones!” the girl insisted.

_Only the ones that deserve to die._

“Sam, the entire goddamn population of Gotham City is bad, depending on your definition,” the waitress said.

“Can’t argue with that,” you said, sounding amused.

Sam was quiet for a long time, then in a small voice, so small that Jason almost didn’t catch it, “He saved me. Me and the other kids.”

That was when it clicked: Nicovante’s gang, the children and teenagers that they used in their fucking brothels. It was one of the reasons that Jason targeted them in the first place. He had found the kids in underground rooms below the gang’s warehouse. There had been blood splatters on his shirt, and he was still holding onto his guns when he found them. But they had looked at him with a sort of blankness that made his chest ache.

Some of the girls had walked bowl-legged, tentative, tottering steps, like toddlers just learning to walk.

Two of them had clung to him, despite the blood and the guns, small hands gripping his shirt.

One of them, he remembered, had brown hair.

And all her teeth had been pulled out.

Anger boiled hot in his gut, and he could feel his hands twitching. Nicovante was dead, Jason had put the bullet through his skull himself, but he wanted to kill him again.

“Saved you?” the waitress asked. “From what?”

Sam remained silent.

Then, in a small voice said, “He’s a good guy. He helped us.”

That was a surprise. Jason had given their coordinates to Oracle and she had sent Robin after him. He had left as soon as he saw Robin’s silhouette jumping across the rooftops, feeling the brand on his cheek burning at the sight of him.

He didn’t think the kids would remember him, not after they saw Robin. Jason felt the corners of his lips twitch. He was glad Sam remembered him.

“That’s...well, that makes me glad I helped him, then,” you said. You sounded like you meant it.

“You helped him?” Sam asked and her voice was high with excitement. “What did you do? Is he all right?”

“I think he is,” you said. “I found him in East End last night, he looked like he was in bad shape. And another guy broke into my house looking for him. Wore a black suit with a blue V on his chest. He said that they were friends.”

Jason felt a spike of irritation at this; of fucking _course_ Nightwing would give out information like that. Never mind that linking the two of them might cause some problems later on.

“The man in the black suit sounds like Nightwing,” the waitress said. “It wouldn’t surprise me that you don’t know him, he usually operates out of Blüdhaven. From what I’ve heard of him, he seemed to be a good guy.”

“He punched me last night,” you said sourly.

_And Nightwing said that he had broken your nose._

But when you had approached him earlier, Jason had seen no sign of cuts or bruising.

Had Nightwing made a mistake?

Jason snorted; he could just imagine Batman’s reaction at the idea of his golden boy making a mistake.

“Then what happened?” the waitress asked.

“Well, he apologized and then he left. When I went to check in on Red Hood, he was gone.”

“Do you think he’s all right?” Sam’s voice was small. “Red Hood?”

“I hope so,” you said.

“So that’s what happened to you last night?” the waitress asked. “Why you stopped checking your phone? You know that I had Ant call you _thirty fucking times,_ right? He was going on about your organs being sold to the black market.”

 _Not a bad guess,_ Jason thought. He knew of three such operations in East End alone, and there were more in the Bowery.

“What, coming across an injured vigilante wasn’t enough of a story?” you said and Jason found himself wishing that you’d lower your voice.

“Didn’t like the ending.” Judging by the way she said it, Jason could tell that the waitress was smiling. “You know what I think?”

“I’m going to regret asking what you think, aren’t I?” you asked, and there was an amused sort of weariness in your voice.

“I think it should have ended in a threesome.”

Jason’s breathing stopped.

Your laughter rang across diner; you obviously weren’t bothered by what she said. Jason, on the other hand, could feel the back of his neck burning.

There was the sound of a door creaking and he looked up just in time to see a heavily-muscled man come out of the kitchens.

A little over six feet tall, tattoos snaking around his arms, he took a table that was directly across Jason’s.

There was no mistaking the look in the man’s eyes; Jason was being watched.

From what he could remember, the man’s face didn’t appear on the GCPD database and if he was part of a gang, then Jason hadn’t encountered him yet.

“What’s Ant doing outside?” you asked.

Ant. The waitress had mentioned that name. He must be part of the crew.

“Must’ve seen someone he didn’t like,” the waitress said dismissively.

The brand on Jason’s cheek burned, and he found himself dropping his eyes. He could feel the man’s stare burning into him.

Jason could see the scars on his hands. His stomach twisted; the thick patches of skin weren’t even the same shade.

What a joke. As if anyone would even fucking look at him.

Jason wished that he had his helmet.

The sound of a lighter clicking made him ache for a cigarette of his own.

“Look, honey, I’m not telling what to do one way or another,” the waitress said. “But getting involved in vigilantes is bound to be bad news.”

*********

The ruins of Wayne Manor was always an interesting sight.

Once, on a whim, you had visited it; a once-proud building that used to house the richest family in Gotham City. Nowadays, Wayne Manor looked like a skeleton, its walls blackened and cracked, its windows blown out. In broad daylight, the sight was heartbreaking, a testament to what Gotham had lost the night of Scarecrow and the Arkham Knight’s attempted takeover.

At nighttime, however? On a pizza delivery for an anonymous caller? It was fucking _terrifying._

Lydia stared at Lou, who was currently occupying the spot behind the counter, a rare sight, considering that he rarely left his office.

“It’s a ruse, you know it’s a ruse, right?” she demanded. “Asking for a delivery in the middle of nowhere and then mugging her for her money. You remember what happened with Evelyn, right?”

The owner’s son stared back at her, a smug smile on his face.

“What’s the motto for Mamma Mia’s?” he asked.

When no one answered, he decided to continue the conversation himself, “The customer is always right.”

“We don’t have a motto like that, asshole. Mamma Mia’s doesn’t _have_ a motto,” Lydia snapped. “You’re gonna get her killed.”

Lou continued to smile, eyes blank in a way that told you he wasn’t all _there_.

“Look,” he said in a would-be gentle tone and you found yourself wanting to punch in his glasses. “Just check, all right, and if no one’s there, you can leave.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the asshole tapped his watch. “Time’s wasting and you have to make a delivery _before_ that.”

Just when you were contemplating throwing a pepper shaker at him, a strong hand closed around your arm and you found yourself staring into Ant’s frowning face.

“Listen,” he mumbled, shoving a crinkled twenty-dollar bill in your hand. “If you don’t feel good about this whole thing, dump the pizza out the back and just tell Lou you delivered it, okay?”

You blinked, the man spoke so rarely that his deep voice came as a shock every time.

In the back of your head, a small voice protested; you didn’t like owing people. You glanced at Lydia, who was still arguing with Lou, her hands curled into fists.

“I can’t take your money,” you protested.

“Take it,” he said. “Look, it could be squatters wanting food, it happens. Check it out if you want, but if you start feeling off, _leave,_ you hear?”

This was the most that he had probably said in a week.

“I...I will,” you said. “Thanks.”

You pocketed the cash, resolving in your mind not to use it if it can be helped.

Meanwhile, Lydia seemed to have finished her argument with Lou and came up to the two of you, red faced.

“Greedy son of a bitch,” she snarled, casting a glance back at Lou, who was happily playing with the cash register.

Then her expression changed as she regarded you, “Listen, if you don’t want to do this, I could--”

You could feel your skin crawling, like live worms wriggling underneath your skin.

“I-it’s fine,” you stammered. “Ant already lent me some money. I’ll leave as soon as things get creepy.”

Lydia sighed, rubbing her face wearily and smearing her eyeliner.

“It’d be really nice if your vigilante showed up right about now,” she said with a sigh. “He hasn’t contacted you, has he?”

It had been a little over a week since you found the Red Hood, alone and injured in East End.

“No,” you said. “I don’t really see why he should.”

“Just saying, he’d be really useful right about now,” the waitress said.

You raised an eyebrow at her, “What about the whole ‘vigilantes are trouble’ spiel?”

“If you ask me, Lou’s even bigger trouble. God, I wish he just stayed in his office and got high.” The waitress looked at you for a long time. “I’ll call you, all right? Don’t you dare not answer this time.”

You patted your phone in your pocket. “Sure.”

“If we don’t hear from you, we’re calling the fucking cops, all right?”

“Okay. You two take care of Sam here, okay?”

“Get moving, then,” Lydia said. “You still have to make another delivery to the Mayor’s house.”

You grinned. “Mayor Gordon and some muggers in one night? Well, no one can say the job isn’t interesting.”

*********

Mayor Gordon’s house was a humble little place, just at the edge of New Gotham. Unlike the former mayor, Quincy Sharp, who had immediately built a mansion for himself shortly after being elected to office, Gordon had stayed in the same home he had since he was a commissioner in GCPD. When Lydia had told you about it, she spoke like it was something impressive.

When you got to his house, you could see figures moving behind the curtains.

You rang the bell.

Voices inside, a woman’s laugh. You wondered if it was his wife.

“Who’s there?” the woman asked.

“Pizza delivery,” you called.

The door opened slightly, stopped by a security chain. From inside, a pretty redhead in a wheelchair gazed at you.

Well, you couldn’t blame her for being cautious.

“Pepperoni, mushrooms and olives?” you tried.

She relaxed visibly. “That would be dad’s. He loves olives. Give me a minute.”

The door closed briefly and opened to fully reveal the woman, a big smile on her face.

You’ve heard of the Mayor’s daughter, a tech geek married to the owner of Drake-Wayne Corp; she’d sometimes release free phone applications, usually with the idea of keeping Gotham citizens safe.

Her most recent application, GothamWatch, was a clever little map of the city that updated in real time about crimes happening around the city, so people would know which places to avoid.

“Sorry about that, can’t be too careful these days,” the redhead was saying.

“No problem. That’ll be nineteen ninety-nine.”

From somewhere inside the apartment, you heard a man’s voice. “Babs? Who’s at the door?”

“It’s the pizza, Dad.”

A harried-looking man with white hair appeared over Barbara Gordon’s shoulder. One hand rested protectively on the back of her wheelchair.

His eyes gave you the uncomfortable feeling of being x-rayed.

But then he smiled, a genuine smile that showed the laugh lines on his face.

“So it is,” he said. “Dunno what’s gotten into you, you almost never want pizza for movie nights.”

“Just wanted to try something different,” the redhead answered. “Do you want to choose the movie? I’ll finish paying.”

“All right.” He briefly squeezed his daughter’s shoulder and went back inside.

“So that was Mayor Gordon, huh,” you said. The man looked impressive for someone who was supposedly getting on in years.

“Yep, that’s dad. How much do I owe you, again?”  

“Nineteen ninety-nine.”

She was still smiling. It was beginning to creep you out.

No one should smile that much while paying for pizza, unless they really _really_ liked pizza. You hoped that she wasn’t going to be another one of your weird customers.

Your hopes were dashed, however, when after receiving the box, Barbara Gordon didn’t shut the door.

Instead, she looked interestedly at you.

“So, uh, delivering pizzas, huh?” she asked.

You blinked. “Uh...what?”

“Your job.”

That was an odd way to try and start a conversation, but as that asshole Lou said, _the customer is always right._

“Yeah,” you said, hoping that she wouldn’t push the topic. You resisted the urge to look at your watch.

“Bit of a dangerous thing to do in Gotham City,” she said. She was holding the pizza box in her lap. It had to be burning her skin by now.

“Everything’s dangerous in Gotham City,” you said, shrugging. Then, just because you might never get another chance, you added, “I like your app, by the way.”

The smile grew even bigger. “Thank you. Which app are you talking about?”

“Well, most of them really, but I liked GothamWatch. Too bad it got cancelled.”

To your surprise, the redhead lost her smile, instead grimacing, as if annoyed by the mention of the application.

“Yeah, I had to disable it. Some of the more hardcore fans were using it to get into trouble, hoping Robin would save them.”

“Shit, _really_?” you said with a laugh. You couldn’t wait to tell that juicy bit of info to Lydia.

“Really, ended up being more trouble than it was worth. But it makes for a good story. I bet you have some of your own.”

After a minute’s thought, you answered, “People like to answer the door naked.”

A look of surprise crossed her face, but then she hitched her smile back on. “That’s...actually pretty horrible. How do you deal with it?”

“With my best poker face on. Most people usually do it to get a rise out of you, anyway. That and, after some time, it just stops being shocking.” This time, you couldn’t help the quick glance at your watch.. “Anyway, I have another delivery to make. You enjoy your pizza, ma’am.”

“Barbara.”

“Uh...what?” This was turning out to be a strange sort of night. Customers were rarely friendly to you, pretty much content to pay and move on.

“You can call me Barbara, if you want. Or Babs.”

Or they were one of those weirdos who got a little too attached to the delivery girls. You had two or three of them, the ones who made regular calls each week and made a little too much conversation.

At first, you had considered it a good thing; regulars were always a reliable way to get tips. Then one of them had dropped to his knees and professed his undying love for you because you happened to have his order memorized.

You certainly hoped that that wasn’t going to happen in this case. The mayor might just shoot you if you refused.

“Oookay, Barbara. Thanks. Have fun with movie night.”

Making sure to avoid her eyes, you walked away from the door, ignoring her call of, “Wait, you didn’t tell me your name--”

And when you were sure that you were out of earshot, you broke into a sprint.

*****

 

The blackened structure of Wayne Maynor loomed over you, and you found yourself pausing just outside the gates, unable to enter.

You could see no lights coming from inside it, though that was expected; it was said that the explosion that destroyed it had ruined it so thoroughly that almost everything inside became ash. All of the Waynes’ expensive furniture, the famous paintings, generations worth of history, gone.

Whatever might have survived the explosion had long ago been carried away by looters.

“Hello? Pizza delivery.” you called.

An odd breeze stirred the leaves of the surrounding trees, their trunks still black even after a year later.

The hairs on the back of your neck bristled; you felt like a character in a horror movie, the one who dies way too early.

Your phone buzzed and you grabbed it, grateful for the small bit of noise in that silent place.

“Hello?” you said into the phone.

“Oh, good, you’re alive. Where are you?” Lydia’s voice was a warm comfort.

“I’m just outside Wayne Manor, there doesn’t seem to be anyone here.”

The waitress snort could be heard through the phone, as well as Ant’s voice, “Did she answer? She all right?”

“Yeah, she’s all right,” Lydia called back.

For a moment, the image of the diner was so vivid: Lydia sitting in one of the chairs, cigarette stick in hand, Ant banging around in the kitchens. You wanted to be back in the diner, maybe getting calls for easy deliveries, not freezing your ass off just outside Wayne Manor.

As much as you liked getting tips, you weren’t so keen on getting stabbed for them.

Then Lydia was speaking in your ears again, “Look, just give it up for a bust and get your ass back here.”

“I’ll...check it out. They might not have heard me the first time,” you said.

“All right, keep in touch,” Lydia said, before disconnecting the call.

A light drizzle had started to fall, cold raindrops pelting your face. You pulled up the hood of your raincoat.

“Hello?” you called again.

Shadows danced at the edge of your vision; your legs were beginning to shake in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.

_They say the Ghost liked to visit this place._

You swallowed, opened your mouth to call again, though no sound came out.

It wasn’t that odd, for people to use old abandoned buildings as makeshift homes. Sex workers and homeless people used to stay in the Monarch Theatre and they phoned in for a pizza once every few months.

You just wished that whoever phoned in this time didn’t choose the second creepiest place in Gotham City.

If no one answered this time, you thought, then you’ll leave.

“Uh...pizza?” you tried again. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see something move in the shadows.

Nothing.

Another call from Lydia had you grabbing your phone.

“I-I’m leaving,” you said, hoping that she wouldn’t notice the slight tremble in your tone, “I don’t think there’s anyone here”

“Good, you’ve got three more deliveries to make, anyway. Just give up that one for a bust; we’ll deal with Lou when you get here.” You could hear the scrape of plates, and the clinks of utensils in the background. “I have to go, we have a lot of customers tonight. Stay safe.”

Despite the raincoat and the thick jacket underneath, you felt colder than ever when you saw the _Call ended_ text on your phone.

“Come on, you’re a big girl,” you grumbled to yourself. “You can do this.”

Just as you were about to mount your motorcycle, you saw lights.

Not lights coming from inside Wayne Manor, like you’d expect if someone was squatting inside the building. Not the eerie, dim glow of a candlelight, like the people in East End would use because they couldn’t afford electricity.

No, these were bright white beams, somewhere behind the trees on the side of the manor.

And they were _moving._

Like flashlights, like people searching for something.

You swallowed, feeling your heart beating in your fingertips. In all the horror movies you’ve watched, there was always that one character who called out “Hello?” when there was a murderer in the house. You decided that a twenty dollar pizza was definitely _not_ worth dying for and kept quiet.

There was a loud _snap_ as a branch cracked underneath someone’s weight.

The sound of flesh smacking flesh.

“Quiet, you idiot!” Whoever spoke was far louder than the actual snapping of the branch.

At least two people, then, maybe more.

Your fingers rested on the keys of your motorcycle, still in the ignition. A drop of sweat slid down the back of your neck, cold as ice.

If you started the engine now, whoever was in the trees would hear it.

“It’s got to be here somewhere…” A third voice said, this one sounding deeper than the others.

You decided to abandon your motorcycle and duck behind the columns near the wrought iron gate.

When you first came to Gotham City, it had been abuzz with the reveal of Batman’s identity, that of the playboy billionaire Bruce Wayne. People who were linked with him, like Vicki Vale, and his adopted sons, were interviewed endlessly: did they know? did he ever give the hint of him being Batman? Did they feel like they really knew him at all?

There were hundreds of videos of Dick Grayson’s betrayed expression as he sat through interview after interview, insisting that despite the secrets the man kept from him, he still loved and honored Bruce Wayne. You thought that half of Gotham City had fallen in love with the man.

And then there were other rumors, about the explosion that destroyed Wayne Manor. About the secrets Batman had to hide.

They said he had a base hidden somewhere on the property. But if there was, no one ever found it.

Was that what these men were looking for? Batman’s secret base?

“Are you sure you got the right information? Who told you about this place, anyway?”

The beams of light swept back and forth across the trees, and you could see shadows moving across the courtyard. You prayed that it was dark enough that they didn’t see your motorcycle.

It seemed too much to hope for, considering the large luggage rack attached to the back.

You counted four people walking across the courtyard, all dressed in black clothing that blended with the darkness, plus a fifth one who stayed in the tree line, sweeping his flashlight beam across the broken windows.

“Man, the Arkham Knight really had it out for the guy, huh?” the man with the deep voice said.

Someone laughed. “Arkham Knight? You think the Knight did this?”

The distance and the splatter of the rain made it hard to distinguish their voices from one another.

“Well, who else could have done this?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the Joker?”

The Joker? You listened with renewed interest, you’d heard of the Joker, but every time he was brought up, people got tense and changed the subject. You knew that he dressed up as a clown, but that was about it.

“The Joker’s dead, asshole, try again.”

The sound of breaking glass as someone threw a rock at one of the few unbroken window panes.

“Do you really think he’s dead? I don’t think anyone that evil can die. Hey, do you think Batman kept a key under a rock or some shit?”

“What, rich fucker like that? Probably have some fancy-schmancy gizmo to open his secret hiding spot.”

You looked up to see a shadow flit across the rooftops.

 _Who was that? Robin_?

You were really wishing that you still had GothamWatch right about now. You’d probably update Wayne Manor with the words, _currently being patrolled by possibly-murderous thugs. Send Lydia Ramirez to collect my dead body in the morning. Will not mind being buried in an unmarked grave so long as you buried my boss with me._

The whirr of something mechanical, the heavy thud of boots hitting concrete.

Then—

“ _Gentlemen_.”

And you clapped a hand over your mouth to keep yourself from screaming.

*********

 

It was _him,_ the Red Hood.

You could feel your knees beginning to buckle and slid down the column maybe an inch.

“What the hell are you doing here?” the man with the deep voice asked.

“Bit of a weird place for an evening walk, don’t you think?”

He sounded _different,_ somehow. Not just because the first time you saw him, he was obviously injured. This time, he sounded younger, more confident.

Or maybe this was just how he really was, hell, you didn’t know.

“Fuck you, Red Hood,” someone said.

_Well, that was smart. Insult the guy with the big-ass guns._

“That’s original. You come up with that all by yourself?” the Red Hood said, sounding amused.

The sound of gunfire ripped through the air, loud, quick retorts that rolled through the silent courtyard like thunder. You let out a cry that was a lost in the noise, clapped your hands over your ears.

“ _Fuck,_ no—!” A loud thud, the heavy sound of a body hitting concrete.

You could feel your heart beating wildly in your chest, hard enough to hurt.

You peered over the column you were hiding behind, one of the figures was lying on the ground, the Red Hood standing over him.

A flashlight was lying abandoned on the ground, blinking on and off.

“You missed,” Red Hood said and all you could see of him other than his shadow was the glow of his mask.

A breath of silence, one, two. Shadows danced across the rooftops and you could have sworn you saw something on the roof of Wayne Manor.

Then, “ _Open fire!”_

And the night came alive with the sound of gunfire, their muzzles flashing in the darkness, the mask of Red Hood blurring as he moved.

_No no no no no._

You hid behind your column again; you didn’t want to _see._

Even with your hands pressed against your ears, the sounds were loud enough that you could feel your teeth rattle.

Your chest ached with every breath, like fire in your lungs.

The _thwack, thwack, thwack_ as bullets ricocheted off concrete. You could only pray that none of them hit your motorcycle; you had the sudden, vivid image of a stray bullet hitting the gasoline tank, of a fireball engulfing you alive. Did that happen outside of movies? And if it did, could you heal from that? Would you want to?

Then, maybe the loudest sound of all, the boom of Red Hood’s gun as he leveled his gun and shot one of the men.

Someone screamed.

An awful crack, another scream. You closed your eyes.

More gunfire.

And then there was nothing but heavy breathing and awful silence.

When you looked back, you saw the Red Hood looming over one of the men, gun pointed at his head.

“Talk,” Red Hood said.  “What were you doing here?”

“I...I _can’t._ Please, he’ll kill me!” The man’s leg looked broken, and he was dragging himself on the ground to get away from the vigilante.

“And you think I won’t?”

“P-please, you don’t understand, it’s—”

Whatever the man was going to say was drowned out by the sound of your phone, the cheerful tone of it jarringly out of place in that silent courtyard. You ducked yourself back behind the column, fingers scrambling to turn it off, to quiet the noise.

It was too late, they probably heard it, anyway. But it was still a small shock of relief when you managed to turn it off. Your fingertips trembled against the glass screen, making small tapping sounds.

Heavy footsteps, growing louder with each passing second.

This has got to be the _stupidest_ way to die.

You found yourself staring up at the glowing mask of the Red Hood. This time, there was no crack in it, nothing to look through to see his eyes or his hair, nothing to tell you that another human being was underneath it.

You braced yourself for the shot—

And found yourself looking down at his hand instead.

“Relax, I won’t hurt you,” he said calmly.

You stared at his outstretched hand, feeling as if the world had tilted on its axis.

“ _What_?” you asked, sure that you heard wrong. Your heart was beating wildly against your chest like a caged animal.

“I won’t hurt you.”

His words felt false, however, when you heard one of the men in the courtyard moan in pain.

Red Hood didn’t even flinch at the sound of it.

“Are they alive?” you asked. Instead of taking his hand, you decided to stand up on your own. You could feel your legs trembling underneath you, and you prayed that you wouldn’t sink back down to the ground.

“Yes.”

The words were out of your mouth before you could stop them, “I thought you killed people.”

Maybe you _were_ the kind of person in horror movies who deserved to die, the ones who got killed because they couldn’t keep their own damn mouth shut.

Almost as if against his will, he turned his head in the direction of the Wayne Manor.

In a voice so low that you could have sworn that you imagined it, he said, “Not here.”

_What the hell did that mean?_

Your eyes were drawn to the men in the courtyard, one of them—the one with the broken leg—was crawling away from the two of you, not even bothering to grab the gun right beside him. Another man, larger than the rest of them, was bleeding on the concrete, a dark stain spreading below him.

“I…”

 _Pitiful_ didn’t even begin to cover the sight.

You looked back at the Red Hood. His mask gave away nothing, so blank that it made the small hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. It felt eerie, to talk to someone and not see their expression.

Was he angry? Upset? Was he going to shoot you? Was he going to let you go?

You’d have no idea of knowing, not until he actually pulled his gun and fired.

You glanced at the men again, feeling your stomach tighten.

“I...I’ll call the cops,” you said and it was hard to keep your teeth from chattering.  “Let them handle this.”

Though you took no stock in GCPD, its current commissioner seemed to be the one good cop in a city full of corrupt ones, they had to be better than an _execution._

_Please don’t kill them. Please._

“They’ll take a while to get here.”

You swallowed. Was it enough, then? Or would they bleed out in this place while waiting for the police to come?

Your eyes couldn’t help but flick to the bat signal in the sky.

“Do you know what they’re doing here?” Red Hood asked. “Did you hear anything before I came?”

“They were looking for something,” you said quickly. “They didn’t say what it was. Do you think it was—”

You cut yourself off, feeling stupid to even suggest such a thing.

The man tilted his head, the gesture oddly innocent for someone who just brutally beat five men with ease. “What?”

“They said that Batman used to live here,” you said slowly. “They said he had a base somewhere in Wayne Manor. Do you think that maybe that’s what they’re looking for?”

You looked up at him; you weren’t sure that if he knew the man, but it was worth a shot. “ _Does_ Batman have a base here?”

Red Hood paused, maybe a second too long to speak, “How would I know?”

Somehow, you felt that he was lying.

“Can I ask you something?” he asked suddenly, and you couldn’t help the step back that you took.

“What?” you asked.

“Nightwing…” he hesitated. “Nightwing said he broke your nose.”

You blinked, once, twice. Fear curled up in your gut, cold and heavy.

_No. No. No._

This wasn’t something you wanted to talk about, something you didn’t want him knowing the answers to. Because if you told him, it won’t be long before someone starts connecting the dots.

A missing person poster, a picture in the obituary. Hell, a stray tweet or a shared Facebook post. All it took was one little mistake.

No. You didn’t want him to know, you didn’t _want_ to tell him.

And…

You didn’t owe this man anything.

You waited for a couple more seconds and looked up at him, as steady as you could be, given the circumstances, given the fact that you felt like you were going to collapse any moment.

“Don't know anything about that." you said.

Both of you knew that you were lying. You waited for the creak of leather, maybe the clink of metal, any sign for the kind of violence he displayed just a few minutes ago.

But instead, he snorted, “Fair enough.” he said. “Best get out of here. I’ll take care of these guys.”

You looked down at his guns and you found yourself getting tense all over again.

“I’ll call someone, all right. They’ll…” you paused. These men were being shady, sure, but it’s not like they were doing anything illegal. “I’m sure Commissioner Cash will find something,” you finished lamely.

“I’m sure.”

_You don’t have to kill them._

But the words stuck in your throat, and all you could do was shake your head and head on over to your motorcycle.

One of the bullets had gone through the luggage rack, piercing clean through it, but other than that, it looked unharmed.

“Will you be alright?”

You looked up, surprised. Red Hood still hadn’t gone back to the men, instead standing where you left him, tracking your movements.

Your hands felt so cold that you could barely grip your handlebars; it was getting hard to bend them.

“I’ll be fine. Not the first time a delivery went south. And uh…” You swallowed the protests, the questions that rose to your lips. “Thanks. That could have been bad. You know, if they found me.”

The Red Hood was quiet for several seconds, then, “No problem. And...thank you. For last week.”

Despite yourself, you felt the corners of your lips twitch. Not quite a smile, not quite not one either.

You started up your motorcycle and sped away, feeling your raincoat flap against your leg, your phone buzzing in your pocket.

As you increased the speed of your motorcycle, Gotham City fell away behind you, shrinking into nothing but lights and sounds. With the ever-present rain hitting your goggles, the lights of the city blurring around you and with so many thoughts bouncing around in your head,  perhaps you could be forgiven for not spotting the shadow of someone leaping over the rooftops, keeping in pace with you, its cape flaring behind it like dark wings.

 


	7. The Point Where You Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, let’s get the second most important thing out of the way first, this chapter contains **violence and body horror** , so please keep that in mind before you continue reading.
> 
> While I’ve already shown violence in this fic, both implied and explicit, I just want to point out for anyone who might be uncomfortable with it, violence and body horror are going to be a running theme for this particular arc.  
> And now, to the most important thing, once again thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who has liked, commented, kudosed and messaged me about this fic! I appreciate each and every one of you!
> 
> This chapter was so incredibly hard to start (and end!), I have like 6-8 scrapped beginnings for this fic, because for some reason, I just couldn’t get into writing it.
> 
> Every time I had to scrap maybe two pages worth of story, I’d read your comments and messages, they are more inspiring than you could ever believe! I am so lucky to have such amazing and thoughtful readers! I am in love with all your speculations and squeeing and comments!
> 
> Once again, a great big thank you to my beta, paradise-runway, who keeps the story consistent and notices the small details I've missed. And of course, to Mister Pseudonymous, who help me write and plot the harder parts of this arc.

> “A voice in the back of his head that sounded very distant, said, _this would be the point where you run if have any sense left_.
> 
> But he wasn’t running.”- Tim Curran, _Doll Face_

 

*********

Maybe it was instinct, maybe it was paranoia or maybe it was even good old-fashioned pessimism, but in your experience, a city like Gotham rarely stayed quiet. It was too full of explosions and gunshots and Riddler’s broadcasted laughter to ever be quiet.

Yet ever since your meeting with the Red Hood at Wayne Manor, your nights had been...uneventful.

Not one mugger tried to stop you, no gang member tried to make you pay some inane fee for wandering into their territory and the only people who pointed guns at you were paranoid customers.

You would have enjoyed the peace if it didn’t make you feel so antsy _._ It didn’t feel like the muted exhaustion that came at the end of a long day, as if the city had tired itself out on all the gunfire and the crimes.

No, this quiet felt uneasy.

Like Gotham itself was holding its breath.

For what, exactly, you had no idea, and you had no time to ponder on it. Driving into the Bowery while daydreaming was a good way to end up getting shot.  You’d once heard Lydia describe it as a shopping district for the poor, at least before it was turned into a part of Arkham City. You could see the Christmas garlands that still hung on some of the shop doors, the plastic leaves now discolored with age.

Some of the neon signs still worked,  flashing bright blue and pink at odd intervals.

 _How brave do you have to be_ , you mused, _to live in a part of Gotham that used to be a megaprison?_

 _Or_ , you added mentally. _How desperate._

The Bowery was one of the places in Gotham that Lydia wanted to blacklist from Mamma Mia’s delivery route. And it wasn’t hard to see why, Arkham City had obviously left its toll on the place.

Graffiti was scrawled all over the walls of once-proud shops; various gang signs, crude drawings, a large mural of a clown in a violet suit who you could only assume was the Joker. Whatever contents the shops once held had long since been looted, though some of the mannequins still remained. They posed in the display windows, in various suggestive positions, their paint cracked and peeling.You wondered, vaguely, if someone had taken the time to arrange them that way. It would be just like Gotham to have some nutjob running around playing with mannequins.

Despite the squalor of the area, there were still people. Shelter was shelter, after all, and you could see their shadows moving inside the abandoned shops.

Some of them peered curiously at you through the display windows, and you saw the way their eyes lit up at the sight of your luggage rack, which had the Mamma Mia’s logo on it. You looked away, touching the Taser that hung from your belt, just to make sure it was there.

Never mind the fact that the last time you had used it, you had ended up disarmed in less than a minute. The fact that it was there was comfort enough.

You decided that the next time Lou asked you to get him a soda or maybe a slice of pizza, you were going to spit in it.

You slowed down your motorcycle as you approached an old apartment building. Its front gate had been kicked in, the hinges long ago eaten by rust. You’d delivered to this location twice now, always to the same customers. Perhaps as a matter of safety–or maybe the universe just really liked to piss you off, the twins lived on the seventh floor of their building. There was an elevator, of course, but judging from the way most of the residents used candles and battery-powered lamps, you doubted that it would work.

You could feel eyes following you as you walked up the stairs. Rats squeaked in some dark corner of the building and you could see the outline of their figures squirming in the shadows. You suppressed a shudder, several of them looked nearly as large as a small cat.

By the time you had reached the seventh floor, you could feel your skin crawling. Some of the rats had taken to following you, their eyes glowing eerily in the dark.

Was it because of the smell of food?

Was it normal rat behavior to follow people around? Shouldn’t they be scared of you? You contemplated kicking them away, then decided that it wasn’t worth the risk of rabies.

The last time you had visited the twins, their apartment still had a door. Now, it was just a piece of white tarp that someone had hung over the doorway.

You wondered if you were supposed to knock.

“Uh…pizza delivery!” you called.

From inside, you heard a high-pitched voice answer, “Oh wow, that was fast. You guys are like, really good at this.”

A pretty blonde girl pushed aside the tarp, smiling at you. There was something forced about her smile, maybe just a little too wide, the teeth showing a little too much.

You took a step back.

“Fifteen-fifty,” you said.

She had a twin. And during the first two times you had delivered to the Bowery, they had answered the door together, completing each other’s sentences in a manner that spoke of long practice.

So, where was she now?

You stood a little straighter, your spine feeling taught, like a guitar string waiting to be plucked. Once again, you touched your Taser with your free hand. Shifted your foot just a little so you could feel the handle of the switchblade that you had tucked against your ankle.

The girl was still holding the tarp open and you could see inside their apartment.

A stained mattress lay on the floor, the handle of a knife poking out from underneath it. Two pillows, one blanket. On top of an old wooden table, a candle burned steadily, dripping wax on the surface. There was no other furniture in the room, nothing for her sister to duck behind.

If this was an ambush, it wasn’t a very good one.

The girl caught you looking and her smile faded.

“It’s not much, I know. But you know, girl’s gotta treat herself sometimes. Especially after a big haul.” She pushed several crumpled bills at you, barely even stopping to count them.

You should have said thanks, should have told her to have a nice evening and leave it at that. But the words jumbled in your mouth, and instead, you found yourself asking, “Where’s your sister?”

And the girl _blanked._

There was no other word for it, like a switch had been turned off inside her, you watch in horrified fascination as the girl’s facial muscles went slack, leaving her oddly expressionless.

Your hands trembled, badly enough that some of the bills she had given you slipped between your fingers.

Your mother had the same expression on her face after your dad left the two of you. Just long hours of sitting on the couch and staring blankly at the wall. Seeing the same look on the girl’s face made you feel like a child again, forever tiptoeing on clean white floors, careful not to disturb your mother’s trance.

It took several tries before you could speak, “Hey, you okay?”

And, thankfully, mercifully, the girl seemed to snap back into reality. A quick blink of her eyes and she was there again, the smile back on her face as if it had never left.

“I’m sorry, what were you saying?” she asked.

You wondered if you should just leave.

“Your sister,” you said. “I asked you where she was.”

“Oh…Felicia?” she said vaguely. “She’s been out on a run in the Final Offer. She hasn’t been back in a while.”

The girl looked down at the pizza box in her hand, and you could see the dark roots at the top of her head.

“You…you deliver all over Gotham, right?” she asked, slowly. “If you–I don’t know, deliver to the Final Offer, do you think you can check if my sister is there? She has red hair, wears a lot of green.”

She let out a nervous giggle as she tugged at her pigtails. “Harley and Ivy, you know?”

You didn’t. And you doubted that anyone from the Final Offer would actually stoop to ordering something from Mamma Mia’s.

Maybe it was the way she looked at you with that blank expression that reminded you so much of your mother, maybe it was because the girl felt so _young–_ too young for a place like the Bowery, or hell, maybe it was because she just gave you a twenty-dollar tip for a fifteen dollar pizza, but you found yourself nodding.

“Yeah, sure,” you said. “I’ll keep my eye out for her. How long has she been gone, again?”

There it was again, the glassy look in her eyes, the way she seemed to look _through you_ rather than _at you._

When she spoke, her voice was free of inflection, of any emotion, “About a couple of weeks.”

*********

You gunned the engine of your motorcycle, not caring that the noise might attract unwanted attention from the residents of the Bowery. Raindrops felt like small stones on your face as you raced back to Mamma Mia’s. Busted traffic lights blinked eerily above you and higher above them, the Batsignal.

Men and women dressed in thick, ratty coats peering at you from inside abandoned stores.

A man shouted something, his words swallowed by the roar of the motorcycle engine.

You were cold in a way that had nothing to do with the rain.

You wanted nothing more to do with this place, these people. You wanted to be back in Mamma Mia’s, drinking warm coffee and keeping it out of Sam’s reach, who had never tasted coffee before, listening to the slam of ovens as Ant cooked the next order. You even missed the smell of Lydia’s cigarettes.

A thought rose up in your head, as unwelcome as it was sudden: _Does your mother look like that now?_

All blank eyes and tight-lipped not-smiles?

Guilt burned in your stomach, and for one moment, you thought you were going to be sick.

No.

_No._

You weren’t going to think about that, it _hurt_ to think about it, like picking at a scab that had not quite healed yet.

A police car was parked just at the end of Pioneer Bridge and you slowed down your pace as you passed it by. You could see twin shadows sitting in the front seat, watching you impassively.

You checked your phone to see if there were any new messages from Lydia, if there were any new orders, any urgent need to get back to Mamma Mia’s. But there was nothing, not even a missed call, and you decided to park near one of the larger buildings, one you mentally identified as the city center. You got off the bike, leaned on it to support your shaking legs.

One word was at the back of your mind, growing in prominence until it was all you could do to keep from screaming it.

“Shit,” you muttered, though your words were lost in the sounds of Gotham City traffic, the steady blare of car horns, the pitter-patter of raindrops hitting concrete.

But it felt good to say.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit—”

“Ma’am?” A deep voice cut through your mumbled tirade and you looked up to see a cop frowning at you. “Are you all right?”

Despite the dim lighting, you could see him assessing you, the same way you assessed your customers. Was he looking for dilated pupils, for the small, lightning-fast twitches in your face?

You decided to answer before he wrote you off for a drug addict.

“Evening officer,” you croaked.

“Everything all right, ma’am?” he said, and you did not miss the way he glanced back at the police car.

“I’m fine,” you said, trying for a smile though you could feel your lips trembling.

The officer eyed you suspiciously but nodded, preparing to turn away.

And for some reason, he turned back to you, and you saw the sudden tension that bled into his face, the sharpness in his eyes. His hand reached for the gun at his hip and for the third time in your life, you found yourself staring down the barrel of a gun.

“H-hey, what’s wrong?” Your voice came out several pitches higher than normal. “Is–did I do anything?”

“Sir, stop walking, right now,” he said and his voice seemed magnified, louder than all the other nighttime noises of Gotham.

_Sir?_

“Are you okay…?” The question died in your throat when you heard the sound of footsteps, of bare feet scraping over concrete.

You turned around, in time to see a man wearing a blue hospital gown. In the darkness, the white doll mask he was wearing seemed to glow.

Your mouth went dry.

The closest hospital was miles away; too far for any reasonable person to walk.

The man crossed the busy road with barely a glance at the cars. One van swerved to avoid hitting him, its horns screaming as it passed him by.

_What the hell?_

Was he high on drugs? Did he escape from Elliot Memorial?

Was he even from a hospital at all?

Your eyes were drawn to his feet; they were bare, yellowed toenails cracked and in some places, torn off completely. Blood and rainwater swirled around his feet as he walked.

More details trickled in, ones that you missed at first glance.

The bloodstained bandages around his hands, the way his fingers were clenched into tight fists.

And the tremors that shook his body, not the way someone would shake when they were afraid, but the barely-restrained energy of a madman.

Before you knew it, you were scrambling backward on unsteady feet. Terror crawled down your spine as something instinctive, something in the back of your mind told you to _back off._

“Ma’am, get behind me,” the cop said, though his voice shook as he spoke.

“What’s going on?” you asked. “Who is that man?”

From behind you, you heard a car door opening.

The man in the hospital gown continued to walk towards the two of you, his gait unsteady as if he might fall over at any moment; a horrible parody of a child learning his first steps.

“Sir, I’m going to ask you one more time–”

The sound of a single gunshot rolled across the street like a clap of thunder. A loud ringing filled your ears.

The man jerked back, but stayed on his feet; a bloodstain bloomed on the front of his gown.

But he kept walking.

And the bloodstain kept growing.

“S-sir?” the officer said, and there was a note of hysteria in his voice.  The gun rattled in his hand.

“William!” Another voice called from behind. “William, what are you doing? Get the hell away from that freak!”

A quick turn of your head and you saw an elderly cop, behind you. His gun was also drawn, but that wasn’t what frightened you.

The second cop’s face was twisted in an expression of hate.

Suddenly, you were sure that he was the one who fired the gun.

“A-Allan? What is going on here?” the younger cop asked.

“It’s one of those _freaks,”_ Allan did not say _freak_ so much as spit it out.

You could feel your face growing warm at the word.

“Get away from it, both of you.” The elderly cop’s voice was calm, cold.

“What are you going to do?” you asked, though a part of you didn’t want to know the answer.

Allan made an impatient gesture.

“Look at him,” he said.

The man was still walking, faster now, heedless of the blood that dripped down from his soaked gown. His movements were strange, mechanical even; the legs too straight, as if his joints refused to bend, the arms swinging stiffly at his side.

Your stomach churned at the sight; you were either going to scream or vomit.

“They don’t feel pain. There’s nothing you can do for them. What I’m doing for it–this is a mercy.” Allan aimed his gun.

“ _No!”_ you screamed.

Something whirred through the air in front of you and the gun was knocked out of the elderly cop’s hand, who roared in shock and pain.

“Why don’t you let me handle it?” A new voice said, and you nearly sagged with relief when you heard it. You’ve never encountered him, but you have seen him in countless videos posted on the internet. You’ve even seen a photo of him on the newspaper; his face had been obscured by the child he was carrying, but it was undoubtedly him.

There was no mistaking the bright red of his outfit or the R on his chest.

_Robin._

*********

Something was wrong.

Jason had never known Gotham to be quiet. It chattered, constantly, from criminals making mindless conversation on who they should rob next, to the endless blare of car horns from drivers who think that being obnoxious would somehow make the traffic go faster.

And yet–

“Red Hood, Robin just reported in. Miagani Island is clear for tonight.” Oracle’s voice rang in his ears.

Jason grunted. He had finished his own sweep of Bleake Island fifteen minutes ago.

“Bleake island’s clear. I’m heading to Founders’.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line and Jason waited. A small part of him wondered if the connection had been cut off, and he didn’t like the bolt of panic the thought sent through him.

“I’ll send Tim over to New Gotham, then.”

“ _Robin_.” It hurt to say it.

_I didn’t want to show you that photo, really…_

“What?”

He shouldn’t have spoken, shouldn’t have cared if his replacement got in trouble, but it was hard to get rid of all the training that Batman ingrained in him.

“When we’re out on the field, he’s Robin.”

“Jason, don’t worry, this is a secure line.”

Jason gritted his teeth, waited.

A long moment of silence and Jason could just picture her, long fingers hovering over the keyboard, the light of the screen reflecting off her glasses.

“I’m sorry, you’re right,” she said softly. “I’ll tell Robin that you’re heading for Founders’.”

The tightness in Jason’s chest eased. “Thanks, Oracle.”

“You’re welcome.”

He was about to turn off his comms when he heard Oracle’s voice again, “Hey. You know, he’s not such a bad guy. And this would be easier if you just talk to each other.”

His stomach twisted and with one quick gesture, Jason cut off the comms.

Oracle had brought up the idea before. Tonight was the third time she suggested that he spoke with Robin directly.

It was more convenient, not having her play messenger between the two of them.

It would save time.

It was more effective.

Batman would call his behavior juvenile, a waste of resources.

And Alfred…Jason didn’t know what Alfred would say.

He aimed his grapnel gun at a nearby building and fired.

*********

Founders’ was as quiet as the other two islands; the only problem Jason encountered was a traffic accident. A clipped side mirror and scratched paint.

And yet…

_Something was wrong._

He couldn’t keep the idea out of his head. It was an itch between his shoulder blades, a thought that clung to him like cobwebs.

The last time Gotham had been this quiet, it had been the night before Halloween. Before he tried to take over the city.

He could taste bile in the back of his throat.

 _One more round_ , he thought to himself. _One more round around Founders and he was going to report in._

Static filled his ears as Oracle once again called in.

Static and…something more. Music. A man was singing, his voice rich, deep, and bouncing off the walls of the skyscrapers in Gotham.  
  
“Red Hood? Look, it’s Robin. He’s near the Gotham City Center right now–”  
  
Not just music.  
  
_Opera._  
  
It could’ve been from one of the open windows, someone watching an old movie or–  
  
Jason turned on the scanner in his helmet and, as always, the world changed.

Expensive clothes, jewelry, wallets thick with wads of cash, they all melted away until all he saw were the crucial details. A gun hidden in the fold of someone’s jacket, a knife tucked inside someone’s boot, maybe a bullet lodged in someone’s arm.  
  
All of Gotham’s dirty little secrets exposed for him to see.  
  
He scanned for any irregularities; groups of armed men huddling together in an alley, a large number of weapons being loaded into a car.  
  
Nothing.  
  
The first time Alfred had installed the scanner on his domino mask, he had given Jason an hour-lecture on the dangers of long-term exposure to the rays in his scanner.

Batman would have told him to switch off the scanner by now.

Jason kept it on.

He tried to scan for the source of the music. The night he had tried to take over Gotham, some of his men had reported hearing opera music all across the city.

Some of them had reported in, half-hysterical, about seeing bodies strung-up, like slaughtered pigs in the butcher’s shop.

When he had heard the reports, Jason had laughed, the sound dark and bitter enough to startle even his hardened soldiers.

Because he knew that even with the entire city of Gotham falling around his ears, Batman would still take the time to hunt down some petty criminal.

If only he’d been that persistent when he had been looking for Jason.

“Red Hood, come in. Listen, there’s been—”

“Oracle, do your files have anything on criminals with a connection to opera music?”

“Opera music? Have you found something?” she said, sounding surprised. “So much for a quiet night, huh?”

For a few minutes, there was silence on the other end of her line as she searched the computer files. His eyes were beginning to hurt; he turned off the scanner.

“I...found a file on a man named Lazlo Valentin. He’d leave the body of his victims on display around Gotham City. Left a tape of opera music as his calling card.”

That fit with what his men had reported to him. The music led him to a largely abandoned section of Founders. It was littered with abandoned shanties, their wooden walls dark with rot and black mold.  

“Is there anything else in the file?”

Silence. He couldn’t even hear the tap of her fingers against the keyboard.

“Oracle?”

“The file is incomplete. I think that Alfred might have kept most of the information in the Batcomputer in the cave.”

She didn’t say anything else; she didn’t have to.

Guilt twisted in his stomach. He’d seen the ruins of the Batcave, forced himself to look at them for as long as he could stand. The giant hunk of twisted metal that used to be the Batcomputer, the memorabilia that Batman had kept as reminders, blackened with ash.

His suit was gone. The one he wore as Robin. Jason wouldn’t be surprised if Batman had burned it first.

“Jason…” Oracle’s voice was soft, hesitant.

“It’s fine. I’ve found the source of the noise.”

Numerous speakers have been fitted across the empty lot, making the opera music loud enough that Jason had to turn on the sound dampeners in his helmet.

“Have you found a body?”

Five shacks, most of them made from plywood and tarpaulin. Though the only things they contained were old, stained mattresses and empty beer bottles.

“Nothing,” Jason said.

He wrinkled his nose. Despite the filters on his mask, he could smell something rotting, maybe a dead rat.  

“I’m going to change the patrol routes to include your location. Valentin might be planning on using it as a dumping sight.”

“Good idea.”

“If you’re finished with your patrol, Robin encountered something strange near the city center. It might be connected with Valentin. I’ll send his report to you,” Oracle said.

No mention about meeting up with Robin or talking with him, something Jason was grateful for.

“Thanks, Oracle”

He should leave, finish his route across Founders’. But something held him back, something that made the small hairs on the back of his neck bristle.

Jason switched on the scanner again.

_And he saw them._

The bodies. Colored a bright orange in his scanner, their skeletons showing the massive trauma they must have endured before they died.

Fractured tibias and fibulas, cracked ribs, portions of their skulls caved in. Broken fingers. Missing teeth.

Some of their mouths were still open in silent screams.

Bodies, stacked one on top of the other, underneath his feet. Buried and forgotten for so long that the earth didn’t even look disturbed.

Jason could feel his heart beating in his fingertips.

His chest was on fire.

The bullet Joker had shot into his chest had shattered against his body armor, sending pieces of shrapnel flying. Some had embedded into his skin, the soft flesh of his neck, his hands.

He had been too weak to even scream.

And the heat. Like hot wire inserted underneath his skin, Jason remembered the heat.

If the Joker had had his way, this could have been Jason, too. Buried underneath the dirt in some forgotten part of Gotham.

No one had reported a missing person in weeks.

He called up Oracle.

“Finished with your route?”

“No. Barbara—” His throat was so dry. It took him several tries before he could speak. “Barbara send Robin to my location.”

“Is everything all right?” Concern flooded her tone.

“No. I’ve found Valentin’s victims.”

Silence. Jason touched his belt, where one of his trackers was embedded. It was fully functional, there was no reason to believe that they were broken. No reason to believe he had turned them off.

“I’m sending him over—Jason, are you all right?” Oracle asked.

“Yes.”

Jason _looked_ , _made_ himself look.

Some of the skeletons overlapped, like the bodies had been stacked on top of one another. Others were...small.

Too small.

His stomach twisted.

This was what Batman had never understood, the price for his mercy. If he had killed Lazlo Valentin, if he had _killed Joker_ , none of these would have happened.

This would be just another empty lot instead of a mass grave.

_And he would still be Robin._

In that moment, Jason didn’t care what Robin was going to say, what Batman’s ghost would tell him. When he tried to picture Alfred’s pinched, disapproving face, it seemed to fade away.

All he could see were the skeletons underneath his feet.

And he _knew._

He was going to kill Lazlo Valentin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think that it’s at this point that it’s appropriate to admit that this story was originally supposed to be a comedy.


	8. The Gods Must Adore Crime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please bear in mind that this chapter contains **violence**. 
> 
> Sorry for the long wait and the long chapter.
> 
> Anyway, once again, thank you to everyone who bookmarked, kudosed, and of course, commented! We actually hit 500 kudos a while back, which I find absolutely amazing *blows party horn*. Seven chapters in and 500 kudos? Just thank you to every single one of you who's read this series. 
> 
> Once again, thank you to paradise-runway, who is absolutely incredible at spotting typos, mistakes and continuity errors.
> 
> And of course, to Mister Pseudonymous, who once again, was the first reader for my (extremely shitty first draft).

> “Sometimes I think this whole city was put here simply because the gods must adore crime.” Scott Lynch, _The Lies of Locke Lamora_

********

Jason ached.

Cold weather in Gotham had a way of seeping into his bones, no matter how many layers of clothing he wore. A light drizzle fell steadily across the city and despite the distance, he could hear the pitter-patter of the rain hitting the body bags.

“Christ, this is...this is fucked up. How many more are there?” a voice asked. Jason didn’t recognize it, might be someone new to the GCPD.

“My scanners pick up four more bodies. Two of them are more than eight feet down.” Jason’s stomach tightened at the sound of Robin’s voice. He felt his fingers twitch, almost as if by reflex. He pretended that it was from the cold.

How many hours, days had he spent analyzing the online videos he’d found of Robin? Most of them had been shot in the dark, the camerawork shaky, but the red of Robin’s outfit had been unmistakable, the R on his chest blazing like a beacon.

He had taken the videos apart, frame by frame, always with one question burning in his head: What made this Robin better than him?

The question still lingered now, but it was easy to push it to the back of his mind, at least with a new case to focus on.

“Any ideas who might’ve done it?” a third voice asked, one Jason recognized as Aaron Cash.

“We think it’s a man named Lazlo Valentin. He used to leave opera music playing next to the bodies,” Robin answered.

This time, Jason couldn’t stifle the wave of uneasiness that washed over him. So far, Cash had proved to be a good replacement for Jim Gordon; he was discreet, reliable, and maybe had a touch more street smarts than his predecessor.

But cops in Gotham City could always be bought; information was often a far more valuable currency than money. Jason wondered how fast it would reach someone like Cobblepot or Dent if it had been _their_ mass grave that he discovered.

Cash’s snort cut through his thoughts.

“That Pyg bastard, then? Yeah, I remember him. Real piece of work.” Cash paused, said something else, but his voice was muffled by the steady sound of raindrops hitting concrete.

From his vantage point, Jason could see the top of Cash’s head as he surveyed the body bags. He also saw the bright red of Robin’s armor, the dark hood pulled over his head.

Six of them in total, along with the four other bodies they have yet to dig up, that made for ten people. Ten people who have slipped through the cracks, ten people who weren’t even reported missing, ten people that Jason didn’t find.

Even without Batman glaring at him, the information settled heavily across Jason’s shoulders. Would Batman have noticed those people? Would he have found them before Jason did?

The commissioner must have thought the same thing, because he spoke again, “No missing person reports, no flyers...How could ten people disappear without anyone noticing?”

_Easily_ , Jason thought.

When he had been a kid living on the streets of Park Row, people disappeared all the time. Whether they’d been visited by one of Falcone’s men, overdosed on drugs, or simply wandered off and never came back; you learn to keep your head down and not ask questions.

Jason doubted that any of the disappearances in Park Row were ever reported.

However, Robin had a different answer, “We’re thinking that some of them may be from outside of Gotham. Two of them have criminal records, spent some time in Blackgate. But so far, we haven’t identified the others.”

Jason watched as another body was dug up from the mass grave, watched two officers muscle it into a bag. Even the distance didn’t spare from the sight of the pale skin, the discoloration along their back, where blood must have pooled after they had died.

Massive chunks of their hair had been hacked off.

From this distance, it was hard to tell if the bodies were male and female. But there was no mistaking the rust-red stains on their clothes.

Three more to go.

“Not from Gotham, huh?” Cash repeated.

A slight pause and Jason must have imagined the slow exhale of breath from the commissioner; he was too far away.

“Not that you’re asking, but these poor people are still better off than that bastard we’ve got in the hold.”

Robin said something that Jason couldn’t hear. He shifted, could feel the beginning of muscle cramps in his legs, pins and needles travelling up his skin.

No pain, yet though.

“He won’t answer you. S’far as I know, those poor bastards can’t even talk. Sure as hell never talked to us.”

Jason remembered something that Oracle had told him; that Robin had encountered something near the city center. Was that what Cash was talking about?

When Robin next spoke, his voice was odd, stilted, “I don’t know much about them. Batman had me working on a different case.”

“Heard something about that,” the commissioner said. “Well, you’re welcome to talk to the one we have in the hold. Doubt you’ll get anything out of him, though.”

A slight pause. “Thanks. I didn’t really get a good look at him before I had to leave.”

Jason recognized the catch in Robin’s voice, the slight hesitation. Did he want Jason to talk to the one in the hold?

It’d make sense; Robin would most likely stay with Cash until all the bodies have been dug up. And yet, something in the back of his mind rankled at the thought of taking orders from Robin, of all people.

His replacement’s next words confirmed his suspicion, “Is there anyone in GCPD, now?”

Cash let out an odd, snorting-laugh, “What, you’re gonna have one of your ‘friends’ visit? Have a skeleton crew working back there. We’ve got all hands on deck searching the city for mass graves like this one.”

Despite the bitter cold, Jason could feel the corners of his lips twitching; Robin wasn’t as subtle as he’d like to think. GCPD lockup was maybe half an hour away from here. And a skeleton crew would be far easier to deal with than the full force of the GCPD.

With one last look at the bodies being loaded into the truck, Jason aimed his grapnel gun and fired.

*********

Rain was steadily pouring down by the time you had left GCPD and for once, you were grateful for it. The moment you had stepped out of the building, the downpour had washed away the remaining traces of blood that had managed to cling to your raincoat.

Water rushed past your soaked shoes as you pushed your motorcycle across the flooded streets. Your phone was ringing in your pocket again. You wanted to ignore it, all you wanted to do was go home, sink underneath the sheets and perhaps not resurface for several days.

But there were already new orders waiting for you back at Mamma Mia’s and the rent for this month was already coming up. Apartments were, once again, becoming a high demand. You didn’t want to give the landlord an excuse to kick you out.

But it was hard to get the image of the man out of your head, the way he kept walking even as the bloodstain on his gown grew, the unseeing, milky-white eyes, filmed over by cataracts.

When he had finally collapsed from blood loss, he didn’t even make a sound as he fell. He didn’t groan in pain, didn’t gasp, didn’t ask for help. The man was completely silent.

The rain was pouring down harder now, you could barely see five feet in front of you, even with the goggles.

At this rate, you’d kill yourself before you ever reached Mamma Mia’s. You paused long enough to check your phone underneath your raincoat. Though slightly blurred, you could read the text message from Lydia.

_Lydia Ramirez, 21:05:_

_U ok? Wen we didnt hear from u, Ant made another batch and took the pizza 2 the O’Keefes. Nothing else yet._

You should have been relieved, you should have been grateful, but instead, you balled up your hand into a fist and pounded it against the gas tank with a frustrated yell. Delivery was your job, your responsibility; it was the only thing keeping you afloat in this cutthroat city. Yet it seemed that you couldn’t be left alone long enough to make a living.

Gang wars, vigilantes, mysterious men with dead-eyes--

“It’s like the entire city’s going insane,” you muttered.

You shot a quick text back to the waitress, your fingers feeling awkward and clumsy from the cold.

_Need 2 take a break. Gonna break my neck if I drive in this weather._

With a pained grunt, you managed to drag your motorcycle over to the nearest shelter, an old bus stop, though you were sure that no buses passed near the GCPD. Water leaked steadily from a large hole in its roof, but it was better than nothing.

You breathed onto your frozen fingers, trying to get some feeling back in them.

On a rare sunny day, you were pretty sure that you could see your apartment building from here. You wondered if you had closed all the windows before you left or if you were going to come home to a flooded apartment. You wondered if the old man who lived a floor below you would complain about his joints the next time you passed him by.

You wondered if your mother was keeping warm tonight.

“Fuck.”

You hid your face in your hands. You almost never thought of her now, had somehow succeeded in keeping your thoughts away from her during the past year. But something about tonight, maybe it was the blonde girl in pigtails, whose blank expression reminded you so much of her or maybe it was the man in the hospital gown, the way he had reached out at you, like he was expecting you to save him. You closed your eyes, listened to the howling of the wind, and tried to convince yourself that you weren’t feeling homesick.

When you opened them, you could have sworn that you saw a shadow land on the rooftop of GCPD.

You swallowed.

No, it was raining too hard to see something that far away. During your first night on the job, you had been convinced that every shadow was a mugger, every shine in an alley the barrel of a well-polished gun.  Once, you had to call Ant to pick you up because you had been convinced that a huge, hulking beast of a man had been waiting for you at the corner of Panessa Studios.

It turned out to be a large cardboard cutout of Bane, another one of Batman’s famed enemies that you never got to see. Perhaps to make you feel better, Ant had told you that Bane scared him, too. Lydia however, had laughed herself silly at you.

That must have been it, another trick of your sleep-deprived brain. But even as you tried to convince yourself this--even you couldn’t be this unlucky in a single night--you found yourself lifting up your goggles to get a better look at the roof of the GCPD building.

Your raincoat beat against your legs as the wind continued to howl; you could feel your skin pebbling from the cold. Rain hammered against your face, hard enough that you soon snapped your goggles back on to protect your eyes.

And lightning forked across the sky, long enough for you to see the shadow of a man, dressed in red, drop down from the roof of GCPD onto one of the many gargoyle statues that decorated the city.

You felt your throat close, heard Lydia’s admonishment ringing in your ears: getting involved in vigilantes is bound to be bad news. The thought almost made you smile; fitting for a city like Gotham, to have vigilantes instead of heroes.

And yet…

It was a vigilante who had saved that man from getting shot tonight.

It was this thought that was going through your mind, as you raised your hand and flagged him down.

*********

The building that housed Gotham City Police Department was nothing short of a fortress. When he had turned on his scanners, Jason saw no vents to sneak into, no glass roofs that he could break...no entrance other than the front door.

He could feel something like a smile pulling on the corners of his lips, the rising excitement that he had to stamp down.

Whether it was just a cruel twist of irony or Jim Gordon’s own innovation, GCPD was pretty much Batman-proof.

On any other night, with the entire force of GCPD manning the rooftops, the hidden cameras, Jason doubted that he could enter the building without being seen.

But tonight, courtesy of Valentin there was only a skeleton crew: someone to man the desk, two other officers to guard the entrance of the lockup, another man posted in front of the cells. Another two men pausing in front of one of the desks, one of them looking like he was drinking out of something. Maybe a coffee break.

Normally, he would have just dropped a smoke bomb in the lobby, maybe mixed liberally with the roughest mixture of knockout gas that Jason could get his hands on.

But after Valentin’s stunt, he doubted that the GCPD needed more strain tonight.

On the rooftop of the GCPD building, Jason straightened, felt the awkward pull of the muscles in his right leg and grimaced. The cold made it worse. He’d probably be limping back to his safehouse by the end of the night.

Oracle’s voice rang in his ear, clear despite the steady beat of the rain against his helmet.

“Think you can enter it?” she asked, though she sounded more amused than anything.

Jason gazed at the single prisoner inside the lockup; the scanners in his helmet made him glow. The heart rate was a little too high for someone who was sitting in prison. Jason noted his emotional state:  _anxious_.

Well, that wasn’t unexpected for someone who’s been locked up in prison.

He said, “Yeah, sure. Let me just tie my hands behind my back.”

When Oracle laughed, Jason felt the muscles in his shoulders tensing.

How long has it been since he had made her laugh?

“Just be careful, all right? Remember to report in if you get into trouble.”

A small click signaled her terminating the call.

Jason watched as two officers exited the GCPD building; one of them had their arm slung across the other’s shoulders, he seemed to be swaying on his feet.

One hundred twenty beats per minute. Jason frowned.

Too high.

He remembered the hysterical calls he had received from his men when they found the bodies that Valentin had hung all around Gotham.

But most of them had been mercenaries, some had been stragglers from the remains of the Santa Priscan army; none of them had any experiences with Gotham City. They had talked about Scarecrow’s fear toxin in the same hushed whispers that they talked about the Batman, exchanged rumors about Zsasz like he was something out of an urban legend.

At the time, It had irritated Jason; he’d told them that if they were worried about small fry like Zsasz, they had no chance against Batman.

Gotham police though, they had lived in the city all their lives, they knew what to expect.

So what had scared that cop?

Well, he guessed that it was his job to find out.

Jason turned off the scanner and then dropped down from the roof, closer to where the officers were.

Pain shot up his leg at the impact, like a bolt of lightning arcing through his muscles. He felt his knees buckle, but he stayed on his feet. Jason stayed still, slowly counted to ten. He could feel memories trying to rise up like a tide..

How many times had he woken up to the darkness of his cell in Arkham Asylum? The slow, muddled process of his thoughts, the way the various injuries seemed to come alive underneath his skin.

And how, despite the darkness, he could see how his right leg seemed...wrong. When he had tried to move it, Jason had nearly screamed from the pain of it.

Jason straightened, pushed the image to the back of his head.

He wasn’t helping anyone like this.

A flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, barely discernible because of the darkness and the rain. A closer look and he saw the figure of a person, waving at him.

Almost by reflex, Jason’s hand went to his guns, still safely inside their holsters. Despite the distance and the darkness, Jason was reasonably sure that he could hit the figure’s center of mass, if needed.

He could almost hear Oracle’s disapproving voice; her gentle prodding that he assess the situation before he made any rash decisions.

He could feel an itch in between his shoulder blades, the burn of the scar on his face; he didn’t like the feeling of being watched.

He came closer, sticking to the vantage points that were hidden in the shadows. Even so, he could still feel the figure’s eyes on him; his stomach felt twisted in knots.

“Hey!” a voice came out of the darkness and something inside Jason jumped at the sound. It sounded strangely familiar.

A quick glance through his scanner revealed two weapons, a Taser on the figure’s belt and a switchblade in their boot. Likely for self-defense, Jason noted. A lot of Gothamites usually had something to defend themselves with. He kept the scanners on, even as he could feel his eyes burning. If you were going to make a move on him, maybe reach for the Taser on your belt, Jason wanted to know.

“Is uh...is lurking on gargoyles your thing?”

Then Jason remembered why the voice sounded so familiar: the delivery girl.

What could you possibly want from him?

If you had wanted him dead, all you had to do was leave him in that alley, several weeks ago.

He wondered if you could hear his voice from this distance. The darkness and the mask made it easier for him to speak.

“Is bothering people your thing?” he asked.

With one last check at his trackers, Jason jumped down from his vantage point; grunting in pain when the impact sent another jolt of electricity through him. If you noticed, you didn’t say anything.

He could feel sweat running down the back of his neck.

“I’m the delivery girl,” you said. “People are usually happy to see me.”

You didn’t look so happy now, though, Jason noted. You looked haggard, eyes sliding away from him to look at the shadowed corners, fingers playing with the buttons of your raincoat.

Jason could’ve said something witty, something along the lines that _he_ wasn’t particularly happy to see you. But he didn’t.

Instead, he said, “What do you want?”

You glanced over at the GCPD building, which towered over the surrounding buildings.

“Planning to get into the lockup?” you asked.

Jason’s first thought was to deny it, lie, or maybe say something that would redirect your attention. But Batman loomed large in his mind; even when he had been Robin, Batman had kept his secrets close to his chest.

The vigilante had entire plans where the only thing that Jason knew was the part that he was meant to play in it.

“Yes.” The word was out of Jason’s mouth before he could think better of it. He could feel that odd twist in his gut, the chilling feeling that his actions were being cataloged, filed away for later judgment.

How many times had Batman said it? How the first Robin would have done what he did differently? How Jason should have been quicker, smarter, how he shouldn't have opened his mouth and given away possibly vital information?

Joker's laughter ringing in his ears.

_This is why he left you to die. Poor Todders just couldn't measure up._

Your voice cut through his thoughts, muttered underneath your breath and picked up and enhanced by the sensors in his helmet.

"Figures,” you said.

You jerked a thumb towards the GCPD building.

"I just came back from there. You're looking for the weird man in the hospital gown, right?"

Hospital gown?

Robin didn't have time to share his files yet. Jason was flying blind. All he knew was that someone connected to Valentin--Pyg as Cash called him--was inside GCPD lockup.

_Don't let them know how much you don't know._

He'd already said enough.

"I suppose you're going in there to talk with the man?" you continued. "Good luck. He was creepy."

Cash had said the same thing. Jason stayed quiet. In his experience, people tended to talk more if he stayed quiet; sometimes to try cover up a lie they just said, sometimes simply to fill in the silence.

You coughed into your hand. Your heart rate increased. He didn't know if it meant that you were nervous or if you were going to lie to him.

Jason breathed in deeply, exhaled. He hoped that the rain masked the sounds of his breath.

_If you had wanted him dead, all you had to do was leave him in that alley in East End._

The thought made it easier for him to talk.

"Creepy? Creepy how?"

"One of the officers shot him and he just kept on walking. Like nothing happened."

Once, Jason's father had cut his hand open on a broken beer bottle. Jason had been in the other room, trying his best to turn his sleeping mother on her side. Even then, he had kept his ears open, always ready for the moment his father would start cursing or throwing things around.

Living with Willis Todd had given him a sort of sixth sense for when shit was about to hit the fan.

However, instead of cursing or calling for his wife--who was sleeping off her postdrug haze--Willis Todd had simply stared at the cut, completely unmindful of the rivulets of blood that ran down his hand, staining the front of his shirt.

Maybe it was a combination of drugs or alcohol, or maybe he'd finally just stopped caring, but Jason's father had looked at his hand--a jagged wound across it, bleeding freely--as if it wasn't really a part of him.

Suddenly, Jason was cold in a way that had nothing to do with the rain.

"Did you smell any alcohol on him?" Jason found himself asking. "Any facial tics? Did you notice anything about the way he talked?"

You gave him an exasperated look.

"He didn’t _look_ high, that much I can say. And I was too far away to smell alcohol on him. By the time I got near enough he was..." You swallowed and though your back was ramrod straight, for a moment you seemed to sway on your feet. "Well, he was covered in blood."

Your fingers smoothed the front of your raincoat like you were trying to wipe your hands on it.

_Anxious behavior_ , Jason noted.

It occurred to Jason that maybe he should say something to comfort you. He cast around for something to say, something reassuring...

Oracle had always been better at comforting people.

"I'm sorry," he said awkwardly.

That's what people usually said, right?

You cast him a _look_ , a little bit like the ones Batman used to give him, like you were appraising what he just said and for a second, he wondered if you were doing the same thing as the old man. Quietly marking his faults, how he had gone left where Nightwing would have gone right.

But then you smiled and something in his chest eased.

"Thanks. I guess. I'm...fine, I think," you said. "I just wanted to warn you...One of those cops...Allan, I think his name was. He hated that guy. He was the one who shot him, might've killed him too, if Robin hadn't arrived."

_Useful_ , Jason thought. It was always good to know which of the GCPD would probably give him a hard time.

You paused in the middle of your sentence and shivered. Underneath the raincoat, you were wearing your uniform; Jason doubted that it offered much protection from the cold.

But when you looked back at him, your eyes were clear and hard, your shoulders squared against the cold and the rain.

"Are you going to kill him?"

The question caught him off guard; the cold, clear way you said it. Batman would disapprove of it, of course, Nightwing never mentioned it, in the brief times when Jason actually replied to his calls. And Oracle...well, she wasn't as bad as Batman, she didn't hound him about it like he knew Batman would have.

He searched your face for any sign of judgment, any hint that you disapproved.

But if you had any thoughts on the matter, you kept it to yourself.

No matter what Jason said, he might end up alienating a potential witness.

"Do you mean," he said slowly. "The man in GCPD lockup?"

"Him or...whatever made him. He looked _wrong_ , somehow. Drugs don't do that to you. Well, regular drugs, anyway."

"I want to assess his condition. Find out what happened to him," Jason said.

Truth. That was surprising. And dangerous.

"Right, well. Better hurry. That officer had it pretty bad for the guy," you said, nodding at the building.

"Did you get his last name?" Oracle had a list of dirty cops who worked at GCPD. As far as Jason could remember, it had three Allans. It would be good to narrow it down.

"Robin called him Officer Kho."

Kho. Not on the list, but Jason remembered that another Kho appeared on the obituaries nearly a year ago. He wondered if the two were related.

"Thank you."  

It was good information, after all.

A quick glance at the GCPD building told him that the man was still sitting inside his cell. Two more officers, circling at the back of the building.

If he could--

"What, you need a distraction?"

He already knew what Batman would say to your offer: too dangerous, too risky, too stupid to trust someone you barely knew.

But Jason was curious.

"What are you planning?"

You shrugged, trying to look casual despite the fact that you were shivering.

"I have a few extra orders that're just going to go in the trash once I go back to the diner. I can just go back and say that someone had it delivered to them as a present."

Jason scowled. "Do you think that will work?"

He knew that if someone sent _him_ an anonymous present, he was damn well not going to open it.

"Probably will. I've done it before; they're going to spend, I don’t know, maybe fifteen minutes asking me about me on who sent it, then probably the next hour investigating it for poison."

Well, that at least made sense. It was nice to know that the GCPD wasn't as easy a target as most of the Gotham underworld thought.

Nightwing would have taken this chance, would have thanked you with a bright smile, probably would have made you fall half in love with him by the end of it.

Batman would have snubbed you, told you that it was too dangerous, and disappeared before you even get another word in.

But Jason...

"Why are you helping me?"

You grinned, a slight twist of your mouth that was half-shy, half-guilty.

"See, I'm not really sure how this works...you know, the whole vigilante thing. Back home, we didn't have vigilantes."

You weren't from Gotham City, Jason realized. You weren't used to the rain and the cold and the things that would have driven any normal person insane.

He wanted to ask where you were originally from, but he kept quiet.

You kept on talking, almost musing for yourself.

"Is--is this a tit for tat thing? I mean, do you take requests, like a jukebox? Do you get letters or something?"

There had been a jukebox on Paulie's diner, playing '70s jazz music, the night of his assault on Gotham. The last time Jason had seen it, people were ripping out jagged pieces of plastic to stab each other with it.

At the time, he had smiled.

Now, he just felt sick.

"Do you need a penny or a quarter or something?"

"I don't get paid for this, if that's what your asking," he said.

"It's not...it's. Shit, I'm bad at this," you sighed. "There's a kid out by the Bowery. Dyed blonde hair. Pigtails. Says her sister's been missing for several weeks now. Sister's name was Felicia. Said she dressed like Poison Ivy, whoever that is."

Poison Ivy. Another one of Jason's victims. He was glad that you didn't know who she was.

Very few cops patrolled by the Bowery and even fewer answered calls that took them to that place. Cash made an effort to drive there, maybe once or twice a month, but he was only one man.

"I'll look into it," he said.

You stared at him, waiting.

"I promise. I'll find her sister."

Jason just didn't know if he'll find her alive or dead.

"Thanks. Look, I'm not asking for a miracle or anything. Just that the girl...well, she looked bad, all right? It'd be nice to know that someone's looking out for the little guy."

You looked away and before Jason could say anything, you were pulling your goggles back on, busied yourself with checking the buttons on your coat. You looked like you wanted to be left alone.  

"I'll be delivering that pizza now. Should keep them busy for fifteen minutes or so. Mind you, they'll probably still keep someone guarding the cells. I mean, no one likes pizza that much. Good luck."

Luck.

Batman hated that word. Careful preparation and knowledge always beat out luck, or so he said.

Jason swallowed, feeling his chest grow tight.

If you turned out to be some sort of mole, if you were working for Cobblepot or Dent or any of the other nameless mob bosses in Gotham underground, Jason was screwed.

You were already starting on your motorcycle, frowning as you tried to kick it into gear. The weak engine sputtered, like the weak coughs of a dying man. There was a bullet hole in the luggage rack. He remembered seeing it the night he saw you in Wayne Manor.

Luck.

When the engine finally came alive, it roared to life. The sound was too rough for it to be anything but a damaged muffler.

"Yeah," he said, though the roar of the engine probably muffled his voice. "You too."

*********

Jason watched as you entered the building, noting the increased heart rate that his scanners were picking up.

This was stupid. Ill-prepared. There was so many things that could go wrong, so many things that Jason hadn’t planned for. Batman wouldn’t have done it, wouldn’t have gone with a plan with so many unknown variables.

But Jason wasn’t Batman. He didn’t have the Batcomputer, ready access to GCPD lockup nor did he have any of the hundreds of gadgets that Lucius Fox had made.

He continued to watch. The scanners had rendered you and the people inside of the building into walking skeletons. Useful for seeing through walls, for searching for hidden weapons. But they were terrible for espionage. Bright orange skeletons didn’t exactly tell much about a person’s body language.

Did you look nervous? Fidgety? Did the officer at the desk notice if there was something off about the way you walked? Jason’s hand curled into a fist, so tight that he could feel the material of his gloves straining.

He suspected that if it wasn’t for the rain, Jason would be sweating bullets.

“Back again? You remembered something?” the cop at the desk asked.

“No. Just got back from the diner. Pizza delivery,” you said, and Jason winced at the high tone of your voice, the slight crack in it as you spoke. Despite the steady hammer of the rain on his helmet, Jason could hear your anxiety.

The officer at the desk glanced up at you.

“We didn’t order any pizzas,” she said.

“Anonymous order online. It’s already been paid for.”

Even with the knot of tension in his stomach, Jason couldn’t help but smile. There was no website for Mamma Mia’s--he’d checked. But you had said the lie so easily, he wondered if you’d used it before.

The two officers guarding the lockup entrance fidgeted. One of them started walking towards you and placed a hand on your shoulder.

Your heart rate climbed even higher, but you didn’t pull away. Jason hoped that you weren’t sweating.

He needed them occupied if he was going to sneak into the lockup without being spotted.

“Did they say who it’s from?” she asked. “I don’t know if you know, but a lot of people have it out for the GCPD.”

“Listen, Officer...Sanchez. I’m just trying to do my job, either take the pizza or dump it out the back. I really just want to finish this route.” You sounded irritated, exhausted. Jason wondered how much of the emotion was fake.

“I get that,” Sanchez said, her voice sympathetic. “Believe me, it’s been a long night for us, too. But a few of us had been sent “presents” before and it didn’t end well. We just want to avoid a repeat of the incident. Mind if we ask you a few questions?”

Someone mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, “Broken glass.”

“Hey, Clancy. Go check to see if anyone followed her. Addy, go with him...Are Allan and William back yet?”

The guard beside the cells fidgeted. “Not yet, you know how Allan likes his smoke breaks.”

“Then you better go with them, rookie. Just make sure that cell’s locked tight. It’d be too easy to get the jump on these two.”

Someone made a sound of protest, but the rookie dutifully rattled the cell to make sure that it was secure, then moved to join the other two cops.

Jason couldn’t believe his luck.

_There was that word again._

The sliding door to the GCPD parking lot could only be opened from the inside and there were cameras along every angle. The only other way into the GCPD was through the main entrance.

For a moment, Jason entertained himself with the idea of striding into the GCPD lobby in full costume. Before he could decide, however, there was the groan of metal, the creak of rusted hinges as the sliding door to the parking lot slowly opened.

Oracle’s voice in his ear, low and amused, “I’ve jammed the cameras, too. You’re welcome.”

Whenever she had tried to help them during patrol, as Batgirl, Batman would scowl at her and tell that he could have handled the situation.

The metal door stopped, doubtless to keep itself from making more noise that could attract the officers. There was just enough space underneath it for someone to crawl through.

Jason answered, his voice almost as low as hers. “Thanks.”

He could still hear the officer’s voice as he made his way across the parking lot.

“...he leave a name? A signature?”

“Even if he did, I wouldn’t know…”

Jason grimaced. He hoped that you’d be able to keep your story consistent if the cops decided to ask you again.

This was a bad idea.

But the door to the precinct was _right there._

Three cops around the front entrance, guns drawn, possibly looking for whoever might be following you. One of them was guarding the entrance to the lobby, the other two begnning to search the alleyways.

No one was guarding the lockup. This was supposed to be _easy._ Yet something in Jason screamed for caution, something that made the shadows in the parking lot dance. It reminded him of Scarecrow’s fear toxin; men screaming at visions that weren’t there, ripping their skin open with their fingernails, trying to get rid of insects that only they could see.

And he had planned to unleash it on Gotham City. 

Guilt was a bitter taste at the back of his throat. He pushed it back, focused on the picking open the door to the precinct. There was a camera just right above him, its glass eye gleaming. He hoped that whatever Oracle did to jam the cameras was still working.

Jason could feel the scar on his face burning. His fingers felt thick, clumsy, as he fumbled with the lock.

He could still hear you talking. Five of his supposed fifteen minutes was gone.

“...yeah, I was brought in by Officer Kho just an hour ago…”

Three cops, still outside the entrance. One of them was examining your motorcycle. He wondered if they saw the bullet hole in the luggage rack, wondered if it would make them suspicious of you.

The lock popped open with a soft _click_ and Jason breathed a sigh of relief. That was one obstacle down, at least. Now there was nothing between him and the man in the hospital gown. A quick glance at the building told him that the lockup was still unguarded.

Jason could have kept himself hidden, could have kept to the shadows until he was close to the man in the hospital gown. But he didn’t.

The man was wearing a doll’s mask that had seen better days, dirt caked its surface and a long crack ran down its face like a tear. Despite the dirt and damage though, the mask was almost obscenely white and it followed Jason as he walked towards the cell.

The man’s heart rate climbed and even in the dim lighting, Jason could see that he was shaking.

He spoke, his voice low and soft. “Red Hood.”

Jason hoped that the man wouldn’t begin screaming.

“You’ve heard of me, then?” he asked. That was good. There were times when the Red Hood’s reputation worked for him, when criminals were so terrified that they were willing to tell him anything.

The man flattened himself against the wall, as far away from Jason as he could manage.

“P-please...I...didn’t mean it. I-I just...” Fear made his voice crack and despite the mask that covered his face, Jason could’ve sworn that the man was close to tears.

_Something was wrong._ Jason reached for the lockpicking set he kept on his belt, beginning to pick through the locks of the cell.

You’d told him that the man had taken a bullet to the chest and barely flinched. You’d said that he had kept walking, as if he didn’t feel any pain.

A man who could take a bullet without flinching wasn’t the sort of man who’d be scared of a vigilante. Yet there he was, shaking in terror, staring at Jason through the mask’s eye holes, legs trembling underneath him.

He could hear Sanchez’ voice echo across the precinct, “Now, if you remember _anything-_ ”

Your voice cutting through the other woman’s, irritation clear in your tone, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll call you. You’ve already said that before. _Good night, Officer.”_

It was when he heard your voice that Jason remembered: you told him that the man in the hospital gown never spoke. Jason felt cold sweat running down the back of his neck as he pushed at the cell door, which opened with a loud whine of its hinges.

“Please…”

“Where is he?”

He was an idiot. He should’ve _seen_ this, should’ve scouted the area first, should’ve used his own two eyes instead of his scanners. He felt too hot, balled up his fist and banged it against the steel bars, not caring who heard it. Six years later and Jason was still too blind, too slow, too goddamn _mediocre._

The man sank to the floor, his legs finally giving out from under him.

“Allan. It was Allan. He...he said that he just wanted to talk to him. Made me dress up like him when we were changing his clothes. Please, he just wanted to talk. I’m a goddamn _cop_ for God’s sake, you can’t kill me!” The man’s voice was shrill, high and soon he’d be attracting the other officers back to the cell.

Jason wanted to scream.

The two men in the courtyard. The ones he saw exiting the building before Jason even entered it. He turned on his scanners to get a good look at the area, but they were gone.

He was moving, unmindful of the noise he was making, of the way his boots thudded against the floor. Jason barely even registered the dirty cop’s screams.

Let the others come. Something inside Jason _ached_ for a fight.

“Break-in in the precinct!”

“Oh Jesus, William? Fuck, is that you? What the hell are you--”

The roar of a motorcycle somewhere outside, the sound of several panicked voices, the pounding of blood in his ears.

Oracle’s frantic voice, “ _Jason, Jason, are you okay?”_

_A set-up? A trap? Some sort of twisted joke?_

He wanted his guns, he wanted something he can shoot at.

Rain spattered against his helmet as he exited the parking lot. Those two men couldn’t have gone far. Allan. The man had called him Allan. He had forced one of the other officers to dress up like a criminal and wait inside the cells. Why?

His eyes burned as he turned on his scanners one more time; he could already hear Alfred’s disapproving voice. Two figures in a nearby alleyway. One was wearing a gun at his hip, a knife in his hand, the weapons lit up by the scanners in his helmet. He could hear the frantic voices from inside the GCPD, their words indistinguishable.

Jason needed to leave. He aimed at his grapnel gun at the nearest rooftop and fired, keeping his eyes on the two figures in the alleyway.

When he dropped onto the roof, that was when Jason felt it, the jolt of electricity travelling along his leg, the sudden, bright pain of his muscles seizing.

Jason dropped to one knee on the rooftop, breathing hard.

_How many times had Joker broken his ankle? With a crowbar, a sudden fall, or some thug dressed as Batman? And how many times had Jason splintered aid? Tried to apply what meager first aid he could?_

In the darkness, he could almost remember how his leg had looked like back then, swollen and twisted and _painful._

_No._

Jason forced himself to stand. He could hear someone speaking, their voice thick with tears, “You’re just...gone, aren’t you? Just like the rest of them.”

A pained groan, the thud of flesh on flesh.

He could see the two figures struggling. The knife flashed in the darkness.

“I’m sorry. What he’s done to you. It’s wrong, it’s inhumane. But there’s no making it better. I know, I’ve tried. Oh God, I am so sorry. This is...this is better. You’d agree with me if you had anything left. ”

“No!” The word burst out of Jason, but it was lost amidst the steady beat of the rain.

He couldn’t run, could only hobble and grit his teeth against the pain, so intense that he could’ve sworn he saw stars.

But he was too slow, like always, and the reached the edge of the roof just in time to see the knife flash in the darkness. To see the ruined mess of a face turned up at him, mouth open in a silent scream for help.

And the cop named Allan Kho slit the man’s throat.

********

There was a certain sense of adrenaline in doing something colossally stupid, a certain sense of freedom, of _invulnerability._ Racing across the slick streets of Gotham City, with the rain pouring down hard enough that you could barely see twenty feet in front of you, you felt invincible.

It was a stupid way to feel, true, but you couldn’t deny the rush of hot blood in your ears, the manic grin on your face.

Is that what it felt like to put one over the Gotham police? To help somebody?

You wondered if this was why Bruce Wayne felt compelled to dress up like a bat and beat up criminals every night. Not because it was the right thing to do. But because it felt _good_ to do something useful for once, to be involved in something that felt... _big._

You were going to get yourself killed, you knew.

But offering to help the Red Hood, asking him to help someone who might fall underneath the GCPD radar--it felt _good._

You sure as hell weren’t going to do it again, but you were going to enjoy the moment. Cars raced past you, their horns blaring and your phone was vibrating inside your pocket. Probably another order from the diner.

You could see Mamma Mia’s neon signs in the distance, visible despite the downpour. You’d always wondered why Gotham still used neon signs when most of the outside world had relegated it to strip clubs and seedy bars. You parked just outside the diner, watching the customers inside. It was hard not to feel a little jealous of them, warm, dry, and sipping from their mugs of hot coffee. Maybe laughing about something funny that happened during the day.

A quick glance at your raincoat told you that it was free of blood. But you couldn’t help but smooth it again, trying to wipe away something that wasn’t there.

When you had tried to help the man in the hospital gown, tried to make him understand that he had just been shot, the man had touched the growing bloodstain on his gown.

He didn’t scream, didn’t cry out. You’d heard of shock preventing people from feeling pain, but the blank way the man looked at his injury.

Something in the back of your head, that raw and animal part of you that still jumped at shadows and dreaded the nightfall, told you that what you were seeing was _unnatural._

And the man had reached out towards you and before you knew it, before you could even think about it, you were scrambling back, throat tight with fear. His fingers had left a streak of blood on your raincoat, three long lines, like a claw mark. The rain had washed it away almost immediately.

But still, you couldn’t get the image out of your head.

“Oh, there you are,” Lydia said as you walked through the door. “I just texted you, too, didn’t think that a trip to the Bowery would take so long. Not that I blame you, weather’s been a bitch, lately”

The diner felt so warm that it was almost suffocating. You stood there in your drenched raincoat, a small puddle forming at your feet.

“Hey!” Manicured fingers snapped under your nose. “You all right? No one tried to fuck with you, did they?”

You shook your head. Something going wrong during one of your deliveries wasn’t new, there was always some asshole or wannabe supervillain who was going to try and shake a little cash from the delivery girl.

This was Gotham, after all. Crime was second nature.

But tonight felt different.

“You’ll tell me about it later,” Lydia said, staring at your face. “Right now, just go to the Monarch Theatre and deliver that.” She jerked her thumb towards two boxes of pizzas and several other, smaller, boxes on top of them, probably pasta or mozzarella sticks.

The boxes were unmarked.

“What, that time of the month again?” you asked. The Monarch Theatre was an old, abandoned structure in Park Row, populated by squatters, druggies and prostitutes. Once or twice a month, they’d order something from Mamma Mia’s, the cheapest that they can afford. Lydia and Ant would usually add some of the castoffs, food that was ordered but then cancelled at the last minute or ones that didn’t meet the diner’s standards.

The idea of travelling all the way to East End tonight left a bitter taste in the back of your mouth.

“Yeah. Make sure to check on them, will you? Whoever made the call sounded pretty out of it,” Lydia answered.

That wasn’t surprising. Half of the people living in the theatre were on drugs of some kind.

“What, like call the cops on them?” you asked, frowning. If there was a surefire way to get the entire population of East End howling for your blood, it was calling the cops on its residents.

“No, just...make sure they’re on their side,” Lydia said. “Make sure that they’re not choking on their own vomit or something. You know how it is in there, everyone is usually too doped up to help.”

You grimaced, reaching for the boxes. There was always at least a dozen people squatting inside the old Monarch Theatre and every one of them had their own tragic story. You’d delivered to old women whose eyes had filmed over with cataracts, men with glasgow grins carved into their faces, teenagers with the inside of their forearms turned black from infection.

A person doesn’t start squatting in East End until they’ve hit rock bottom.

Still, it was a chilling thought, the idea that someone in the theatre could be ODing and not a single person would try to help them.

“I’ll try to rush this. Text me if we get any more orders,” you said.

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Yeah, sure. Try not to break your neck while you’re at it.”

“All right,” you paused, trying to balance the stack of boxes in your arms.

You passed by Sam, who waved at you.

“Be careful,” she said. “If there’s someone named Frederick in there, say hi to him for me.”

You weren’t sure if Lisabet would approve of that.

“Sure, oh and if you guys see a man in a hospital gown anywhere near Mamma Mia’s…” You opened the glass door, cold wind and rain buffeting you as you did so. “Barricade the doors and sic Ant on him.”

*********

You weren’t exactly sure if it was something supernatural or just a case of good planning, but the neon sign that marked the Monarch Theatre still burned bright, years after the building itself had been shut down.

Some of the letters had been busted, whether through bad weather or some gang member trying to prove himself, so all that was really left of the sign was “ _M N A CH THEA”._

Still, the fact that the place had electricity at all was impressive, especially since the rest of East End had reverted back to lamps and candles after Bruce Wayne’s death led to massive cuts in the city’s funding.

Despite Lydia’s comments on how much better Mayor Gordon was than the previous one, even he seemed to have given up on East End.

No matter how many times you delivered to the place, you always looked up at the great wooden doors with a sort of wistfulness. Before it had been shut down, the place must have looked magnificent.

Now all that was left of it were broken windows and an old battered sign.

You could hear voices from inside the theatre, loud enough to rise above the roar of the wind. Odd, but not uncommon. Some of the people who lived in there would scream in their sleep, while others experienced hallucinations, terrifying enough to make them rake their nails against their skin, trying to get rid of invisible insects.

You couldn’t exactly blame them, after tonight, you were sure that you were going to have a few nightmares yourself.

“Let’s just get this over with,” you mumbled, taking out a flashlight. It was East End, after all, and you wouldn’t discount the idea that someone could be in the shadows, waiting to jump you.

When a quick search revealed nothing, you got the boxes out of the luggage rack and prepared to knock on the door. It must have looked grand looked once, if the designs carved into the wood was anything to go by. Even the red paint, chipped and peeling after long years of neglect and exposure, still had a vibrancy to it.

The building had once been a part of the failed project, Arkham City and there had been rumors how the doors had once been painted in blood. A melodramatic idea, sure, but half the crazies in Gotham seemed to have a flair for the theatrical.

The voices inside were getting louder. You knocked.

Nothing.

“Hello?” you called. “Pizza delivery?” 

Your words felt tiny compared to the constant hammer of the raindrops against the theatre’s roof, the roar of the wind.

“Uh...hello? Anyone there?”

The voices grew louder, though you couldn’t make out any words. The first time you’d delivered to the theatre, one of the older women had been talking to herself in a corner. You wondered if that was the case here.

You looked behind you nervously. While being the delivery girl for one of the only establishments who delivered to East End offered you some protection there was an itch between your shoulders blades that wouldn’t go away.

Like someone’s gaze was burning into your back.

There was a shadow moving in the corner, a person walking towards you. A chill ran down your spine and you were suddenly, painfully aware of the fact that your hands were full of delivery boxes, that you couldn’t reach for your Taser, which hung heavy at your belt.

At the very least, you could probably throw the boxes at them.

Whoever was approaching you walked as if they were drunk, their steps slow and uncoordinated. As they came closer, you pressed yourself against the door, holding the boxes in front of you like a shield. You could feel your heart hammering wildly against your chest and your skin felt warm, flushed, despite the cold rain.

Your throat was so dry that it took you several tries before you could speak, “H-hello? Who’s there?”

It could be anyone, you told yourself. It could be a drug addict looking for their next hit, a drunk trying to walk off their hangover, some tourist who decided to go slumming.

But you couldn’t get your mind off the man in the hospital gown.

A hand reached out to you and in the light of the Monarch Theatre’s neon sign, you saw blood and torn-off fingernails. For one wild moment, you could have sworn you saw a gleaming white doll’s mask, a stained hospital gown.

The boxes clattered out of your numb hands, bursting open on the wet concrete. You fumbled blindly for your Taser, though your hands were shaking so badly that it slipped between your fingers.

“ _Fuck!”_

There was a knife, a switchblade, tucked into your boot but you didn’t want to expose yourself by bending down and grabbing for it, not with the figure coming closer. Soon, they’ll be close enough for you to see their face and you bit back a scream at the possibility of seeing another masked face.

“ _Stay away from me!”_ you shrieked.

_If it’s the man in the hospital gown, again..._

Lightning streaked across the sky and for a moment, you saw a tangle of wild hair, a pair of wide dark eyes.

And when the person stepped into the lights, you saw not a masked man, but a woman. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, and mascara ran freely down her cheeks. A cut on her lip dribbled blood down her chin. The hand that wasn’t reaching out for you was tightly clutched around an old mobile phone.

You could see her struggling to speak, her body shaking from the force of her sobs.

She said, “Please.”

It was like having a grenade explode inside you, guilt and fear and paranoia so intense that they burned in your gut. You stared at her, frozen.

_Not tonight, please. It’s too much. Not tonight._

She could still be trying to kill you. This could be a trap.

You wanted to vomit. You wanted to cry.

“Who the hell are you?” you demanded.

When she reached for you, you pressed yourself against the door, feeling the wooden carvings digging into your back. You could still hear the voices inside and you wondered if it was worth it to scream for help.

“I’m sorry. This wasn’t...I didn’t want anyone else to get involved in this...But I was so _scared,”_ the girl said.

You didn’t know if it was tears or rainwater running down her face.

“Is this a set-up? An initiation? Are there others? I have a _fucking knife!”_ Still safely tucked in your boot, but you were pretty sure that you could get it if the need arose.

“No, no. We have to get out of here. I...I should have called the police...I’m sorry. But they never come here and…” As she spoke, the girl held up her phone and a small, detached part of you wondered how it was still functioning despite being absolutely soaked. “You always came here so fast.”

You could still feel your heart hammering against your chest, but other than that, you felt nothing.

The girl was making her way towards your motorcycle, her fingers scrabbling at the empty ignition switch.

“H-how do you start this thing? Please, we have to get out of here,” the girl said.

A sense of unreality washed over you and you were gripped with the insane urge to laugh. This was a scene straight out of a horror movie and you half-expected for the floodlights to come on, the cameras to snap, maybe a director’s scowling face as he yelled, “Cut!”

But the scene kept rolling and you watched as the girl grasped at and twisted a key that wasn’t there, her lips moving silently, maybe in prayer, maybe in mad, incoherent ramblings. Her shoulders shook, as if she was still crying.

There was no way this girl could be faking this.

Maybe it was stupid to believe her, maybe she had several friends waiting in some dark corner, ready to bash your brains out. But you knew that this moment counted on a split-second decision and that you had to act fast. You reached down and grabbed your Taser from the ground, ignoring the smear of tomato sauce on its handle.

“Get on. Try anything and I’m Tasing you and dumping you in the Gotham River.” The words would have been so much more intimidating if your voice hadn’t been shaking so badly.

But just as you were about to walk towards the girl, the theatre’s red doors flew open, sending you sprawling. You landed on all fours, the impact against the pavement knocking the wind of you. The Taser flew from your hand. You sucked in your breath, feeling the burn in your palms and knees.

Thunder erupted across the dark alley and the girl screamed.

_It wasn’t voices,_ you thought dizzily. _It was singing._

Music. For the first time in years, there was music inside the Monarch Theatre.

_Opera music._

For some reason, the thought filled you with dread.

_All those theatrical Gotham villains…_

“Oh God, how do you turn this thing _on?”_ the girl shrieked and out of the corner of your eye, you could see her trying to mount your motorcycle. Stupidly, irrationally, you found yourself wanting to strangle her for that.

The music grew louder, a man’s voice singing right along with it, the lyrics mangled and punctuated by...pigs snorting.

You wanted to turn your head, get a glimpse of who was behind those red doors, but a part of you didn’t want to turn, didn’t want to _see_.

_If I see whoever’s behind those red doors, I think I might just go mad._

A strong hand reached for the back of your raincoat and that was what broke the spell that kept you frozen on the pavement. You twisted, reaching for the knife in your boot, pressing the button that released the blade even as you ripped it free from its sheath. A bright, burning pain flashed in your ankle, but you couldn’t worry about that now.

Whoever was holding you was attempting to pick you up by your raincoat, like a kitten and the idea was so absurd that you would have laughed if you weren’t terrified out of your mind. When you tried to unbutton your raincoat to free yourself, you were slammed down on the ground.

Pain blossomed in your chest and your lungs burned as you tried to suck in air. Nothing. Someone’s weight pressed down against you and you struggled to breathe.

You slashed blindly at whoever was holding you, feeling the blade hit something solid.

When you looked to the arm holding you, you saw a deep cut in the flesh, blood gushing out of the open wound, so red that it looked fake.

_Please let this be some stupid joke, some stunt of the Gotham Herald, oh God please._

You were gripping the knife so tightly that your fingers felt numb. This was a joke, it had to be...

But the hand was still holding on to you, you could feel its strength as it shook you like a recalcitrant child.

Somewhere in the background, someone was still singing-laughing-crying, as if they meant to drown out the sounds of the storm itself. You could hear the pigs snorting and more than anything in that moment, you wanted to cry.

You looked at the hand that was holding you and you saw cracked fingernails, dirt caked into the palms. You saw an infected wound, nearly black with gangrene, pus oozing sluggishly from its open sore.

The stench emanating from the hand was enough to make your stomach turn, would have made you vomit if you hadn’t gone so numb from fear.

You followed the hand up, saw blackened marks in the crook of the man’s arm, you saw scratch marks that might have been from fingernails.

And when you looked up at the man’s face, you saw a doll’s mask where a face should be, you saw tufts of brown hair poking out from underneath layers of bandages, you saw a single, merciless eye staring down at you.

You screamed, a high, unbroken sound that echoed across the alleyway.

Terror rode up your spine and you could feel your limbs flailing, feet pounding uselessly against the concrete, you slashed wildly, trying to hit the man’s face, his eye, anything, anything, to make him let you go.

But instead of letting you go, the man turned you around so that you were on your back and you could fully see his face. Fingers like steel bars coiled around your throat, tight and merciless and unbelievably cold. You tried to suck in air, but none came.

Fear made you feel cold.

_He meant to strangle you._

Your lungs burned and you tried to focus, focus on keeping yourself alive, trying to envision the air still flowing through your lungs even when it wasn’t there.

But the music was in your ears, that horrible singing and it was driving out all thought. You couldn’t think, you couldn’t _concentrate._

You tried to form a fist, beat weakly against the man’s chest but he was solid, immovable. The sound of steel clattering against concrete as the switchblade slipped between your useless fingers.

Your heart was hammering in your chest, almost as if in violent protest of what was happening.

You couldn’t die like this. You couldn’t leave Lydia and Ant and Sam wondering where the hell you were, you didn’t want them to turn on the television one night to find your face in the news.

Absurdly, you thought of your mother and how you didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.

Fire burned in your lungs and black smoke bloomed behind your eyes.

You found yourself reaching for those solid hands, trying to pry them apart. You had never felt so weak in your life.

You could see the dark Gotham sky above you, the Batsignal burning against it like a brand. In the back of your oxygen-starved brain, you were still holding out hope for someone to save you.

You could see the amount of damage on the doll’s mask, spiderweb cracks across that white, white face, like glass close to breaking.

You could see his eye, wide and unblinking, and you saw how there was nothing human in them at all.


	9. A Thing That Lives on Tears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well shit, don't know what to say about the long wait except I'm sorry. Especially to that anon on Tumblr who asked for a schedule on my update. This update took so long it's embarrassing. Writer's block can be a bitch to deal with.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has commented on the last chapter, you have no idea how helpful it was when I was breaking through my writer's block.
> 
> Also, thanks as always to Mister Pseudonymous for helping me get through this monster of a chapter.
> 
> And to Winterbugsy, who sent me a really nice message to make sure that I wasn't dead in a ditch somewhere. Thank you so much!
> 
> Also. I'll just warn for everything in this chapter. Blood, disturbing imagery, etc. Can't wait until we're all sunshine and rainbows again. XD

 

 

> “Over this odd world, this half the world that’s dark now, I have to hunt a thing that lives on tears.” _The Silence of the Lambs,_ Thomas Harris 

*****

 

You woke to bright lights and the smell of antiseptic.

The sounds of banging, distant screaming, and your own harsh breathing. It hurt to swallow; your throat felt like it was filled with broken glass.

Your chest felt tight, rattled every time you took a breath, the first flutterings of panic stirring in your chest. You pushed down the urge to scream.

Every few months, GCPD would hand out a series of pamphlets to its citizens, in an effort to keep them educated. The pamphlets had a running theme: _What to do in case of a bank robbery, what to do in case of a fire, what to do when you’ve been taken hostage._

They were handed out and accepted with a weary sort of resignation; it was Gotham City, _of course,_ they’d have pamphlets for crimes.

You remembered collecting a few, intending to read them for tips. But something always came up: too many deliveries, too many late nights, too many things to fix in your dingy apartment.

The pamphlets had lain forgotten inside a drawer.

You wished you’d read them now. Wished that you could think of something else to do other than to scream and scream and scream. Your eyes burned, a single tear rolled down the side of your face. You could feel it burning against your skin.  You moved to wipe it off.

And stopped. There was something thick around your wrist, preventing you from moving your arm. It was too soft to be a handcuff and yet--

You tugged and felt no give, only the creak of something metallic filling the room.

_Nonononono._

The taste of bile at the back of your throat, the painful thudding of your heart against your chest. A part of you didn’t want to look, didn’t want to inspect your surroundings, didn’t want to process what was happening.

But you had to. You had to if you wanted to survive. Somewhere in the back of your head, you remembered the headline from one of the pamphlets, the bone-white letters standing out against the black background.

_Stay calm. Observe your surroundings._

You didn’t know what the pamphlet had been about, but it seemed to be pretty good advice right now. If you ever got out of this, you were going to send Commissioner Cash some flowers.

Slowly, carefully, you tested out your restraints, left arm, then right, then your legs. One arm lay flat against your side, the other near your head. The bindings had maybe several inches worth of slack, more if you pulled hard, though it was accompanied by the sound of creaking metal.

No pain, though, whatever had been used to tie you down was padded. Tight enough to restrict movement, but soft enough not to hurt you.

And what were you lying on? Something lightweight, old and rusted, judging by the squeak of its metal frame. You swallowed, thinking of hospital stretchers, with wheels underneath for easy transport.

You tried not to think about what all this meant, what your captor had planned for you.

You could feel your pulse beating in your fingertips. Other than the occasional scrape of metal on metal, there was no sound in the room except your own harsh breathing.

Every now and then, you’d hear someone’s voice, too far away to make out the words.

You think it said, _Please._

You kept your eyes firmly fixed on the ceiling, counting the cracks in the wood paneling, the occasional dark patch where water had leaked through. The place looked old, uncared for.

Less likely for the GCPD to find.

What was the other bit of advice you remembered? _Observe your surroundings._

You’d been dreading that, had kept your eyes fixed on the ceiling for this very reason.

You didn’t want to see the room you were being kept in.

Cold sweat trickled down the back of your neck. When you shut your eyes, you thought of blood-soaked floors and dead bodies with wide, staring eyes. You thought of the man in the doll’s mask, sitting quietly in a corner, watching you.

You had to bite your tongue to keep yourself from screaming.

On the count of three, you decided. On the count of three, you will look.

Sweat trickled down the back of your neck, tracing a cold line in your skin.

You shivered.

_One._

You closed your eyes and images of dead bodies flashed behind your eyelids. If there were corpses in the room with you, surely you would smell them, right?

Still, you shivered.

_Two._

You thought you heard someone screaming.

_Three._

A great gust of breath whooshed out of your lungs, your hard beating so hard against your chest it hurt.

Your eyes sprang open and you _looked._

And immediately wished that you hadn’t.

You saw a blue hospital gown where your clothes should have been, the exact same shade as the one worn by the man in the doll’s mask.

You saw thick leather straps circling your body like chains, one for each limb.

You saw a thick, blood-stained bandage wrapped around your left ankle and you remembered how you must have sliced it open when you were reaching for your switchblade.

And there, an open door that led to a darkened hallway, where you could see the shadow of a man approaching you. You didn’t know how you could have missed the sound of his footsteps.

Under dim lights, you saw a pig’s mask, the color of it the same pale pink of freshly-healed skin.

And you saw the white surgical gown, the stained gloves he wore in his hands.

Electricity arced through you as you made the connection. And you made one last desperate bid for freedom. Muscles corded under your skin as you strained against the straps, the frame of the bed creaking in protest. Legs kicked out wildly and you felt a strip of cloth flapping against your leg.

In the corner of your eye, you saw the man halt in his tracks, making placating gestures as if to calm you, ask you to stop.

You did no such thing.

You thought of every bit of advice you’d heard ever since you came to Gotham— _give them a fight, go to a crowded area, don’t resist, just give them your money, always carry a weapon, take some self-defense lessons—_ trying, trying to find that one bit of information that could save you.

Because the moment you had seen the man’s hospital gown, you had connected the dots and terror hit you like a lightning bolt, arcing underneath your skin.

 _Hospital gown-_ _operating room-s_ _urgical gown._

As the man approached and you could do nothing, nothing except kick out futilely at the straps that held you in place, you finally gave into your fears, finally did the one thing you had been avoiding since you woke up.

You threw your head back and screamed.

*********

 

Jason woke up to the roar of thunder, and the first thing he thought of was gunfire. When he had still been living in Park Row, Jason heard a lot of them. Raised voices, the sound of breaking glass, the smack of flesh on flesh.

You learned to ignore it, after a while.

But tonight, though, Jason wasn’t thinking of Park Row.

He was thinking about Allan Kho, he was thinking about the unidentified man who had been killed in that alley, he was thinking about Oracle’s voice, telling Jason that it wasn’t his fault.

He was thinking that he should have shot that officer.

If he hadn’t been so busy staring, if he hadn’t been  _limping_ , Jason would have had enough time to line up a shot, squeeze the trigger.

Save the man in the doll mask.

Allan Kho’s voice, haunted, pleading, as he spoke, “ _You don’t understand. There’s nothing left of them in there. It’s just an empty shell.”_

Jason could taste something bitter in the back of his throat. Some could say the same for him, after all.

He sat up.

Jason felt agitated, restless, a low current running underneath his skin. The knowledge that could have done more, done _something,_ rankled.

“Still awake?” The voice startled him, a quick, one-two stutter of his heartbeat— _J_ _oker’s laughter waking him from his nightmares—_ and Jason already had a gun in his hand before he recognized Oracle’s voice.

His helmet on stand beside his bed, glowing eerily in the dark.

Jason could’ve sworn he heard her laughing.

“How’d you know?” he asked.

“Heartbeat on your monitor went up a few beats.”

His hand automatically went to his belt, where one of his trackers was embedded. Jason always made sure that he had at least one on him.

When he didn’t answer, Oracle kept speaking. She always had a gift for knowing when people needed silence and when they needed to hear someone’s voice.

Right now, Jason needed something to chase away his thoughts.

“In case you’re wondering, we still haven’t found anything on Professor Pyg’s latest victim.”

He wasn’t. A jolt of electricity ran through him when he realized that he hadn’t bothered to do his own research, had simply been content with letting Oracle do her job. Unknowingly, Jason had assumed that she’d tell him if they ever found anything.

A year ago, he wouldn’t even have bothered updating her about _his_ finds, telling her _his_ location. A year ago, he had been certain that Oracle would turn him over to the GCPD once she found out where he was, where he stayed.

The thought settled heavily in his gut.

Oracle went on as if nothing happened. Jason was glad that she couldn’t see his face.

“Is that what he calls himself?” Jason muttered. “ _Professor Pyg?”_

“That’s what GCPD’s file called him.” Oracle’s voice was wry. “Apparently he had a habit of speaking in third person.”

If Batman had time to come back to the Batcave, he would have no doubt added it to Pyg’s profile. Media loves drama after all, and _Professor Pyg_ was a lot more eye-catching than _Lazlo Valentin_. It would have ended up on more headlines.

“Fingerprints have been burned off. No dental records.” A slight pause on her end. Jason entertained himself, imagining her sitting in front of her computer in the Clocktower. Still awake and working when the rest of them had gone to bed for the day--or what’s left of it.

“The genitals have been removed,” she said thoughtfully. “But based on body structure, the last one was a male.  Do you think it’s symbolic?”

“He was wearing a doll’s mask. And dolls don’t have genitals. Unless you’ve had a really fucked up childhood,” Jason answered.

Jason wondered if the man had still been conscious when Pyg had performed the operations, whether he bothered to use anesthesia, sterile instruments.

Somehow he doubted it.

“Cash has been running GCPD to the ground, trying to find a sign of Pyg,” Oracle continued.

“What about the police officer?” Jason asked.

“Currently locked up in GCPD. He said that he didn’t have anything to do with Professor Pyg. Said what he did was a mercy.”

A quick, twisting sensation in Jason’s gut. His mouth went dry.

“A man with the surname ‘Kho’ appeared in the obituaries last year,” he said, softly. “Think they were related?”

Silence on her end, though Jason doubted that he surprised her with this information. He was sure that she already knew all there was to know about Allan Kho.

“Brothers.” Her voice was short, clipped. “Died of a gunshot wound to the head.”

“And before that?”

Again, silence, and he could almost see the cogs in her head turning, the furrow in her brows that appeared whenever she was concentrating on a case.

When she had been Batgirl, she would pace the floor of the Batcave. Jason wondered if she still did it now, circled the Clocktower in her wheelchair.

The scar on his face itched.

“Reported missing.”

Jason swallowed. “Okay.”

The night the Arkham Knight tried to take over Gotham City, Professor Pyg had been casually butchering people and leaving their bodies out on display. Maybe one of them had been Allan Kho’s brother.

He wondered just how many criminals had slipped through the cracks because of what he did.

A quick glance outside told him that night was quickly falling, pinpricks of light appearing in the darkness. Neon lights of restaurant signs flashing in the distance. Soon, someone would sneak on top of the GCPD building to turn on the Batsignal, point it at the night sky.

Somewhere, Robin was putting on his suit, checking his gear.

Gotham City only truly came alive at night.

Jason could feel the words, a physical lump in his throat. Batman had always kept information close to his chest. He thought of all the nights he had spent as Robin, where each step of Batman’s plans were given on a need-to-know basis.

It was safer that way. Easier.

Less of a chance of your plans being leaked, of being betrayed.

But Jason had spent over a year with the Joker, and Batman’s real name had never once passed through his lips.

Only at the end, and even then it been stopped by a bullet to the chest.

When Jason next spoke, his words were slow, measured. He spoke as if the words were being pulled from somewhere deep inside him. “Someone told me that a girl from the Bowery went missing a few weeks ago. Do you think they might be connected?”

Oracle didn’t push, didn’t prod.

Instead, she said,  “Do you think I should send Robin?”

He could feel his lips forming a frown; the Bowery was as much of a shithole as East End was. Half of the buildings there were rotting away, and the ones that weren’t were being squatted in by drug runners, sex traffickers, the sort of people who wouldn’t be allowed to live anywhere else, even in Gotham.

He felt a small tug of amusement, imagining Robin in the Bowery.

“I’ll go.”

He reached for his helmet and just as he did, the Batsignal came on, stark white against the evening sky.

“Jason.” For the first time since she called, Oracle sounded reproachful. “Are you sure you should?”

Gentle words, soft tone, probing words. She would always skirt around it—the topic of his injuries, his scars, just how much of his time with the Joker he still carried around with him. Jason knew that _she_ knew what happened the night before, how his leg had given out from other him.

He felt a spike of anger.  The familiar burning in his cheek and right then, he could feel every inch of the J Joker had branded it on him, as hot as the day the bastard had pressed the burning brand against him. He wasn’t a broken toy, wasn’t one of Pyg’s creations. He _could_ do this. The _Red Hood_ could do this.

He pushed it down, tried not to snap at her.

“I’ll go, Oracle. The Bowery’s more my territory.” He tried to sound reasonable, calm, but he knew that his voice held an edge to it.

Jason didn’t want to think about how much it sounded like the Arkham Knight’s voice. Hard. Angry.

Oracle must have heard it, too. He felt a flush of guilt at the thought.

“Okay. But I’ll be monitoring your trackers, just in case something happens,” she said. _Something_ being immediate shorthand for his injuries.

He thought of all the dead bodies that Pyg had dumped in that mass grave. None of them had been identified yet; the damage to their faces had been too extensive, a final insult from Pyg.

Jason said, “I’ll be fine, Oracle.”

For their sake, he had to be.

 *********

You screamed until your voice broke, until the only noises you could make were harsh, guttural noises at the back of your throat. Until there was nothing left in you but tears.

Through it all, the man in the pig’s mask watched you. Not with a doctor’s clinical detachment or the cold, calculating eye of a scientist.

Inside the eyeholes of his mask, you could see his eyes, a weak, watery blue. They looked at you with pity; the expression one wears while eyeing a lame horse, just before it’s shot for mercy.

Something inside you--the part that wasn’t paralyzed with terror--wanted to scratch his eyes out. You actually felt your hands curling into fists at the thought.

When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly deep, and he swept his hands out like he was addressing a crowd.

You could see the blood stains on his gloves. They did not look fresh. This man has done this at least once.

“Pyg...Pyg is sorry. _So_ sorry. Can’t use you. Can’t fix you. Can’t make you—” He cut himself off with a snort, a thick, cloying sound at the back of his throat.

You shivered in disgust and had to bite off a scream when he ran a finger down your bare leg. You imagined that he’d leave a trail of slime as he went.

Py—you assumed that was his name—paused at the wad of bandages near your ankle.

“Pyg can’t stop your hurting. Pyg can’t make you... _perfect.”_ He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye.  A muscle in his neck twitched. “Can’t stop the bleeding.”

In a flash of clarity, you remembered pulling out your knife from your boot, the blade slicing through the skin of your ankle. A blip of pain that was lost amidst your panic.

A shiver ran through you, the movement making your hospital gown rustle.

You had been unconscious the entire time.

You stole one more glance at the bandages around your ankle—was it your imagination or had they gotten redder?

_He said that he couldn’t stop the bleeding._

A bitter taste flooded the back of your throat as something that you had always suspected was confirmed.

You couldn’t heal while unconscious. You were lucky you hadn’t bled out.

Pyg turned to you, and for the first time, you could see the million little cracks in his mask. Spiderwebs all across his pig-mask, like bits of broken flesh. Dried glue seeped between the cracks.

You saw the shine of his eyes. They looked wet with tears.

And you knew that there was no reasoning with this man. He was far beyond that.

“Pyg is...sorry. So sorry,” he said, again and maybe for the last time.

From a rust-stained tray, he picked up the scalpel. Everything else in that place was dirty, blood-stained or half-eaten with rust, but the edge of that scalpel gleamed.

And you heard the sound of distant screaming again.

The sound of smashing glass.

And Pyg...  _changed._

“No, no, nonononono!” His voice rose into a wail that echoed across the walls of the room.

“Hereherehere. Can’t be here. Can’t be," Pyg said. He actually threw down his scalpel, a child’s tantrum in a man twice your size.

You wondered if Pyg would actually answer if you asked him what he was talking about. Decided it would be better to keep your mouth shut.

Somewhere in this dark, damp building, you could hear voices

_“Help please—"_

_“...is that?”_

_“I’m here!”_

You weren’t the only one Pyg had trapped down here. For a second, you wanted to scream, too, a cry for help, a confirmation that _someone was trapped down here._ You wanted to scream, _Someone please save me, please._

But Pyg was there, and there was no telling what he would do if you screamed.

He touched your forehead, almost tenderly, like a parent checking for a fever. His gloves felt sticky against your skin.

You wanted to bite him.

“Stay. Stay here. Pyg needs to stop him—yes, yes. He’ll break them again, he will. Pyg must protect them. And after...after...” He trailed off, voice going soft.

“Maybe Pyg can try and make you perfect, too.”

*********

Jason never reached the Bowery.

He was halfway across Gotham City when he saw the Bat symbol on one of the buildings. He had seen enough of those, someone with a spray can of paint and an odd sense of irony would deface some of the city’s walls with the Bat symbol or even the logo of Wayne Corp.

But this one didn’t look like it came from a can of paint, Jason glanced uneasily at the Batsignal that hovered in the clouds above, this was the Batsignal in miniature.

Was this a thing that people did? Strap cardboard cutouts in front of flashlights and hoped that Batman would come to save them?

Jason filed the information away, thinking of GCPD’s hotline, Oracle’s GothamWatch. Sometimes they’d get helpful information, but most of the time, it was just prank calls and misinformation. He knew of at least three groups—two in Penguin’s employ—dedicated to sending false information to the GCPD.

As he watched, the symbol wavered, dipped, then went back to its original position. Like someone was holding it and getting tired.

If it was a prank, then whoever was holding it was showing some dedication.

In the back of his head, Jason knew that he should be heading for the Bowery, looking for more signs of Pyg. The news about Pyg’s mass grave still hadn’t sunk into Gotham’s citizens yet; at the very least, he doubted that whoever was holding the signal would have useful information.

It could be some sick joke or a prank.

_Or it could be real._

And as he came closer, he noticed something. The symbol was different from the one on Batman’s chest, the one he was so familiar with. It was there in the straight lines that made the wings, the wider angles. Similar to the Batsymbol, but not quite.

He swallowed.

It was _his_ symbol. The Red Hood’s. Not Robin’s or Batman’s or Nightwing’s. _His._

He could taste laughter in the back of his throat, thick and bitter. It was a trap, it had to be. The best thing to do would be ignore it, come back on a less busy night. After he had dealt with Pyg.

But he came closer, curiosity burning a hole through the back of his head, the scar on his face throbbing relentlessly.

Who’d call to _him_ for help?

Jason dropped down from one of the buildings, using his grappling gun to break his fall. Still, the impact sent jolts of electricity running up his leg.

Neon lights lit up the corner of the alleyway where the signal was coming from. He could see small puddles formed from the rain. An overflowing dumpster, flies buzzing lazily above the mounds of garbage.

He could just barely see who was holding the flashlight that send the signal. A tall woman, made even taller by her heels. Every now and again, Jason would see an orange glow, possibly from a cigarette.

His scanners told him that she had a switchblade in her pocket, that her heart was racing. From this distance, he could even see the small tremors in her hand as she held up the flashlight.

It didn’t look like a trap.

And just as he was about to show himself, she turned to him--eyes wide, something like a smile on her face.

She turned the flashlight toward Jason, blinding him for a few seconds, before his helmet’s compensators kicked into gear.

Jason thought of the cells in Arkham Asylum, the flash of bright lights to signal Joker’s arrival. His muscles tensed.

“Turn that thing off,” he snapped.

“Oh, right.” The light shut off abruptly. “I didn’t actually think you’d come.”

They stared each other in the dim neon lights. Unkempt black hair that threatened to escape from underneath her hair net and wide, dark eyes. Mid to late thirties. She was almost eye-level to him, and her gaze didn’t waver. She was studying him as intently as he studied her.

Jason glanced at her bare arms. No track marks or bruises. So she wasn’t an abused girlfriend or a druggie looking for extra cash by snitching on her supplier. Her nails were bitten down to the quick.

She kept her hand on the pocket where her knife was, but she didn’t draw it.

Cautious but not aggressive.

Images of Pyg’s victims flashed through his mind. He needed to make this quick, if he can.

“Well, I’m here. What do you want?”

Before she could reply, Jason heard the of hinges as a door opened, a thin stream of light coming out of the crack. He could see a figure moving behind the door.

His hand was already reaching for the smoke bombs on his belt when the woman spoke, “Wait, don’t go. He’s with me.”

“That’s not exactly comforting,” Jason said. But his hand hovered over the pouch on his belt, not quite touching.

“Lydia?” a man’s voice rumbled. “That him?”

_Lydia._

Recognition came to him then, the flash of lightning in the back of his head, the hot flush of shame at not having realized it earlier.

He should have been quicker than that. Batman had taught him to be quicker than that.

The waitress from the diner.

Lydia let out an irritated huff.

“Yes, it’s him.” She turned back to Jason. “He’s with me. We’ve been taking turns with the flashlight—you know what, never mind that, it doesn’t matter. One of our crew missing last night.”

Another missing person. Jason felt a hard knot forming in his gut. He licked his lips, felt the cracks in them. There was a ringing in his ears he couldn’t quite place.

“The delivery girl?” he asked.

Lydia straightened and the door behind her seemed to open just an inch wider. Jason could see the hulking figure of a man— _Ant, you had called him Ant—_ leaning against the frame.

“How did you know? Was there something on the news, did someone report her or--”

“She helped me last night. To get something from GCPD.” The words spilled from his lips before he could stop them. Guilt so hot that he could feel it burning a hole through his gut. “Someone must have found out.”

This was the reason Batman didn’t want civilians to get involved.  

Lydia looked surprised, but she didn’t reach for the knife in her pocket, she didn’t scream, she didn’t blame Jason for putting a civilian in danger. Instead, she muttered, “Yeah, that sounds exactly like the sort of stupid thing she’d do.”

Ant stepped into the alleyway. He looked even larger, silhouetted by the light seeping from behind the door. The man’s physique reminded Jason of Bane, who had thrown cars around as if they were children’s toys. It was an effort not to reach for his guns, not to reach for that extra bit of security, not to look hostile around these people.

 _Rapport._ Back when she had been Batgirl, Oracle had told him over and over, to establish rapport with possible witnesses. Jason had never been good at it.

“Doubt it had something to do with you,” Ant said. “Got an order from Monarch Theatre before she disappeared. Dodgy place.”

Monarch Theatre. A building somewhere in East End. Old, but not abandoned. Mostly populated by the homeless, drug addicts, people who have hit rock bottom.

His mother sometimes slept there, when she had been too high or too tired to go back home. Jason though, had avoided the place. Something in his gut told him that something was... _off_ about the Monarch Theatre.

He raised an eyebrow, though they obviously couldn’t see it.

“And you let her go there?” he asked.

He didn’t know if that made you brave or stupid.

Lydia shrugged, a loose-limbed gesture that fooled no one. “Sure, if it means that she won’t get fired. And most of the people there leave her alone, anyway. But she didn’t come back last night. Something happened. She’s never skipped out on work.”

“Well,” Lydia added. “Almost never.”

Jason thought of the night you had dragged him from East End, half-crazed with fear toxin.

He got the message.

“And you want me to look for her,” he said.

For the first time since he arrived, Lydia looked embarrassed. She blushed, the mottled red across her cheek like hives. Jason got the impression that she didn’t blush often.

“We would’ve taken care of it ourselves—we tried to find her during our breaks—but one of her regs from East End said that she saw something odd at the old Theatre last night. She stayed put. Lisabet didn’t want to get involved.”

Again, the creak of the door. This time, it was by someone he recognized almost immediately. _Sam._ She was staring at him. Wide, worshipful eyes.

Jason wished that she’d stop.

“What did she see?” he asked.

“A man wearing a mask,” Lydia said. And for the first time her gaze wavered. She looked like she was about to cry. “She said that he was dragging someone inside the Theatre.”

*********

You counted Pyg’s footsteps as he left, listening to his singing echo in the dim hallway.

Opera.

The bastard was singing opera songs.

_Of course._

When you couldn’t hear his footsteps anymore, you tested the straps again. They held, but you heard the creak of the frame as you did so.

You could feel sweat running down your back, soaking your hospital gown. A dull throb in your ankle, where you had sliced the skin open with your switchblade.  But there was no pain.

Dangerous. If Pyg hadn’t pointed it out, you might have never noticed.

Every nerve was screaming at you to _move, move, move._ Your fingers were actually trembling, the urge to run or scream or hit something nearly overwhelming. But you forced yourself to lie still, to focus on that one spot near your ankle.

The last thing you needed during an escape was a limp.

It was perhaps the hardest thing you had ever done, lying there, focusing on closing your cut, counting the minutes until Pyg came back.

Somewhere in the hallway, you heard a thud, loud enough to make your heart jump. You hoped that Pyg had somehow tripped and fell on his head. You imagined the bleeding stopping, the skin beginning to close.

You had no idea if imagining it actually sped up the process. You never really had time to test it.

Finally, finally, when you could no longer feel the throbbing in your leg, you stopped. Breathed.

The lights above you flickered and you had to bite your lip to keep from screaming. The thought of getting stuck in this place in the dark—you didn’t think you’d survive the experience

You bit your tongue, willing yourself to remain calm.

_Get out of here first. Call the GCPD. Then, you can scream as much as you like._

The straps were strong, but the frame felt weak, creaking every time you strained against it. You swallowed.

Was it possible to kick the frame down?

You experimentally tried to kick out and though the frame protested loudly, the straps prevented you from getting enough purchase.

You closed your eyes. _Think, think._

In the distance, you think you can hear Pyg singing. It sounded a lot like screams.

_What else could you do? There has to be another way to escape._

The frame. Break the frame.

How?

Your heart was beating painfully against your ribs. The straps didn’t allow for much movement, but you _could_ move, maybe a few inches on each side. You tried to rise on your elbow, as much as your bindings would allow. You could feel a dull, throbbing pain forming along the joint of your shoulder, maybe the beginnings of a cramp.  

If you succeeded, it was possible— _possible—_ that you could get out of here alive.

And if you failed...Well, you’d probably die looking like an idiot.

A burst of hysterical giggles bubbled to your lips, out before you could stop it.

_If you didn’t get out of here soon, you’d end up being as bad as Pyg._

You tried not to think about what Pyg would do if he found you, how you would escape this place _barefoot_ , wearing only a hospital gown. You tried not think about anything except for escaping.

The metal frame whined as you rocked, carefully at first, then with increasing force. The thick leather straps felt like they resisted against every inch of movement, even though you knew that you had some slack. Cold sweat dotted your forehead; your muscles burned.

You were sure that you looked quite insane; you weren’t even sure if this was going to work. The stretcher felt too solid, too sturdy to tip over.

But still kept trying, building momentum—after all, what was there left to lose?

And there was one moment, where your momentum brought your entire weight against the right side of the stretcher, when it _tilted_ , like a ship swamped by a wave. Your heart lurched. But then it steadied itself again.

Doesn’t matter. You were going to keep trying.  

You could hear the wind howling outside, the soft, pitter-patter of rain hitting the roof, the beginnings of a thunderstorm. A burst of nostalgia went through you, and you were suddenly thinking not of the diner, of Lydia and Ant, sitting beside them, the muted exhaustion of a long day. You weren’t thinking of your apartment, rented in less than ideal conditions, the first thing that was ever truly yours.

You were thinking of the long nights you had spent awake, too sick and feverish to sleep. How every now and again, you would hear the creak of your bedroom door, and you knew that it was your mother checking up on you. You had felt safe, then.

There was a surprising moment, a heartbeat, two, where you violently wished that you had never left her.

And then there was the sudden sense of vertigo, the cold rush of air and—

The stretcher hit the floor with an almighty crash, hard enough to rattle your teeth, straps digging painfully against your skin as you were knocked to your side.

You hoped that Pyg didn’t hear that.

You were sure he did.

In the crash, the stretcher had knocked down Pyg’s tray; his instruments were scattered across the floor, some of them old and bloodstained, some of them so polished that they gleamed.

No time to think about that.

You tested the frame, kicking your leg out, waiting to hear the tell-tale sound of metal rods falling against the floor.

Nothing.

A sliver of ice shot up your spine. Panic skittered across the back of your head like a spider.

It didn’t work.

You pulled at the straps around your hands and felt immediate resistance. It was getting hard to breathe.

_It didn’t work._

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” The sweat was getting in your eyes, and you couldn’t even reach up wipe it off. The sting of it felt a lot like tears.

You imagined Pyg walking down the halls, wondering what happened to his patient, that thick pig-snort noise in the back of his throat.

What would he do once he peeled away your bandages and found out that you had healed? For one vivid moment, you saw an image of yourself, pinned against a board, alive but unmoving. A trapped insect in a madman’s collection.

You imagined his scalpel slicing your skin open.

Over and over and over.

Wait.

The scalpel.

You remembered him putting his scalpel down on the stand next to you. The one you had knocked over. It lays on its side now, one of its wheels spinning forlornly.

Pyg’s instruments on the floor, some of them too out of reach.

You could have cried. You nearly did.

But there was no time for that— _after_ , you would cry _after—_ and with your heart beating in your throat, you surveyed the ones across your stretcher. Some of them could have been useful; what looked like a rusted pair of scissors, a large pair of...pliers? You hoped that it wasn’t a pair of pliers.

As if you needed more reasons to get out of this place.

You counted two scalpels on the floor,  their edges dulled and rusty. One of them had a small blade, small enough that it was hard to see. You didn’t want to think of what Pyg would use that for.

Most of the instruments were too far away for you to reach, but some were mere inches from your stretcher. You thought of the scalpel Pyg had held up, the one that had shone so brightly. You groped blindly on the floor with your right hand, grimacing at the sticky feel of the concrete.

It was possible that some of Pyg’s tools had skittered next to you, and you just couldn’t see them. Your hand touched upon something cold, something _metal,_ and for a moment, you felt weak with relief.

And when you ran a finger across the thing’s smooth surface, you felt a slight prick of pain, the hot well of blood running down your fingers.

For a moment, you felt so lightheaded that you were sure you would have floated away, had it not been for the straps.

You must have touched the blade.

You remembered the scalpel he had held up for you to admire.

If you ever got the chance, you were going to stab him with it.

Ignoring the burning in your muscles, the tight cramp in your shoulders, you reached down, fingernails scraping at the concrete as you tried to grasp the delicate instrument.

Pyg had stopped singing.

You don’t know what that meant.

It was hard not to scream when you finally grasped the scalpel, blade-first, felt it slice against the skin of your palm. If it was sharp enough to cut you, it was sharp enough to cut through your straps.

Your hand was beginning to cramp up, fingers so slick that the thing would have slipped from your fingers if you hadn’t held on to it so tightly.

This was your lifeline. _This was your lifeline._

You maneuvered the scalpel so that you were holding the handle, so that the blade was flush against your skin. You felt hot, sticky with blood. Slid it down against your wrist,  into the space between the strap and your skin.

“Lydia, have I got a story for you,” you said woozily.

You could only hold the scalpel at an angle, sawing against the soft padding, as fast as you dared. The rough sound of cloth being cut filled the room, and _God_ it sounded sweet.

You didn’t know how long it took, couldn’t count the number of times you nearly dropped the scalpel in your haste. But when you felt the padding around your wrists loosen, a sudden burst of adrenaline made you pull, as hard as you could.

And your wrist came free.

A yell of exhilaration burst of out of you, a rush of triumph so hot that your blood sizzled.

You reached up, fumbled for the straps on your right wrist, dropping the scalpel in your rush.

And then your legs.

 _And then you were free._ Standing on your own two legs, your entire body shaking from fear and adrenaline that you had to lean on your stretcher to keep from falling. The empty hallway was in front of you now, the same hallway where Pyg had left. You thought of Pyg’s minions, the people in the doll’s masks, the way the one in the Monarch Theatre had overpowered you. You thought of Pyg himself, the sickly pink of his mask, the utter lack of mercy in his eyes.

You wondered if you would encounter them if you went down that hallway. You wondered what you would do.

You bent down, picked up the scalpel you had dropped. Its blade looked blunted now, after you had used it to saw through cotton and leather, the shine of it dulled by your blood.

It was hard to grip, your hand felt slick from the blood still oozing from your sliced hand.  You studied your cuts, a knot in your stomach forming at the sight of them

You bled steadily, with no sign of stopping. It was getting hard to grip the handle of the scalpel because of it.

The floor felt sticky against your feet. You felt a shimmer of nausea when you saw the rust-brown stains on the concrete, the bright red of your own fresh blood mixing along with it.

It made you wonder just how much blood had been spilled here, how many of Pyg’s victims had failed to escape.

Watching the small drops pool around your feet, you felt ill at the notion that you had left a part of you in this place. Soon, it was going to dry, and you would be a part of the sick tapestry that Pyg had painted on the floor.

You watched your fingers, focusing on slowing the cut. You thought of Pyg and the look of pity in his eyes.

The way he had touched you, as if comforting a dog about to be put down.

He had apologized because he couldn’t make you _perfect._ Because he couldn’t fix you. Because he couldn’t make you stop _bleeding._

The bleeding stopped. The slice closed. You were sure that if you wiped your fingers against the hospital gown you were wearing, your hand would show no redness, no tenderness or telltale pinkness of newly-healed skin. 

It would be like the cut had never been there at all. 

You smiled.


	10. Escape, and Danger, and Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for taking so long with this, I just moved apartments and WiFi has been a problem. As in, it's currently impossible to get it hooked up to my apartment, so that's fantastic, along with other med school shenanigans. 
> 
> A huge thanks to **Winterbugsy** for her encouragement with this chapter, and to **RedPirate** for her help and input on this chapter.
> 
> And of course, all of my love to **Mister Pseudonymous** for her help with brainstorming, editing, and for her patience, during the times where I'm pricklier and more anxious than a hedgehog on coffee.

 

 

 

> “My chest trilled with something I could not quite name. Escape, and danger, and hope all at once.”  _The Song of Achilles_ , Madeline Miller  

*****

You didn’t know how long you stood there, at the edge of the dim hallway, listening to other people scream. They bounced off the walls, the words magnified and warped at the same time. You couldn’t even tell if the voices were male or female.

_Help me please._

_I’m here, I’m here!_

_I didn’t do anything._

_Batman, save me._

Save me.

You swallowed.

You have never thought of yourself as a hero.

No super strength, no heat vision, no clever gadgets tucked in your belt.

But there were other people down here. Others that Pyg had captured, maybe experimented on. Maybe some of them already strapped down to a stretcher, like you had been.

If there were vigilantes out there, like Robin and Nightwing and Red Hood, did it actually mean anything if you saved those people? Wouldn’t it be better if you got out first and let the actual heroes do their job?

You rocked slowly, on the soles of your bare feet. Even standing was painful, your legs aching after spending God knows how long tied to that stretcher.

And there was the scar on your ankle. You had seen it when you took off the bandages that Pyg had wrapped around your leg. A long, pale line of puckered skin, right where your switchblade had sliced into you.

It had happened once before, a healing gone wrong, leaving a small, indentation on your chest where a bullet had once entered, leaving a mess of an exit wound in your back.

It was the closest you had ever come to dying.

A reminder that your powers didn’t make you immortal.

Which was why you stood in the entrance of the hallway, Pyg’s scalpel clutched between your hands. The blade had most likely been blunted after you had used it to saw through the leather straps, but it was the only weapon you had.

You remembered the man in the doll mask, the one who had dragged you into the theatre, the unflinching strength. The inhuman eyes.

Pyg’s prisoners were still calling for help.

You closed your eyes. Told yourself that you were shivering from the cold.

_Coward._

You wondered if Batman had ever once felt terrified.

The safest course of action would be to escape before Pyg returns and call the GCPD. Let them handle this.

_Please, help me._

_I’m over here._

And what if Pyg came back to find you gone?

Would he run? Would he take these people with him?

Or would he just slit their throats, leave their bodies out like trash?

Would you be willing to take that chance? Would you be willing to have their ghosts follow you around for the rest of your life?

The blood-soaked concrete felt cold against your feet. You took one step, and another, and then another. Lights flickered eerily above you, making the shadows around you dance. Every now and then, the light would catch the blade of the scalpel, making it shine.

It felt so small between your hands.

This was the part in the horror movie when the monster would jump out of the darkness.

This was the part where you would die.

Cold wind blew past your legs and you shivered. Stupidly, irrationally, you wished that you wore something warmer than a hospital gown. Your fingers were growing numb.

Amidst all the cries and calls for help, a scream erupted, louder than all the rest. The sound of wild, unbridled panic filled the hallway. It didn’t even sound human.

Chills broke out across your body.

You don’t scream like that unless you were dying.

Unless you were being tortured.

It was the kind of scream that pierced right through you, the kind you felt in your bones. You could feel yourself shaking,  from cold or fear or adrenaline. There was no way you could ignore something like that, no way you could escape from the theatre, knowing that you were leaving someone behind to suffer.

Heart hammering inside your chest, you ran down the dim hallway, following the sound of the screams.

Images of broken bodies and cracked doll’s masks flashed through your mind as you ran. Your heart was beating so fast that you were afraid that it would burst in your chest. Terror and adrenaline so intertwined that it was hard to tell one from the other.

You wanted to hit something.

You wanted to cry.

The hallway opened into a large room. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw faded armchairs, center tables with shattered surfaces. In the back of your mind, you wondered if this had been a lobby, once. Several portions of the wall had been ripped open, wires hanging out of them like organs, sparking with electricity.

And at the center of it, you saw something that looked like it came out of a nightmare. Hanging upside down from one the theater’s many gargoyle statues was one of Pyg’s minions. The bandages around his head were slowly unravelling and you could see the blood stains on them.  

His massive fists were swinging wildly, trying to find something to punch, to hurt.

He was bellowing like a wild animal.

You could taste bile in the back of your throat.

Despite your fear, despite the fact that one of them had nearly strangled you, despite the fact that they might not even be human at all, there was still something startlingly cruel about stringing someone up like a pig in a slaughterhouse. Your stomach was so tightly knotted that you were scared you would vomit.  _._

The bandages finished unravelling, pooling in a dirty clump on the floor. And you could see the black stitches that traveled along the man’s hairline, the clumps of hair where blood had pooled and dried.

You saw red hair, and dark roots just beginning to show at the crown.

_Felicia._

You doubled over and retched violently, though nothing came out but the taste of something bitter in the back of your throat.

Twins. They had been twins. Yet Felicia–-if she really  _was_  that-–looked nothing like the girl from the Bowery.

_Perfect_. Pyg had been planning on making you  _perfect_.

And you had thought of torture, of a long, drawn-out death. You had thought of being buried in an unmarked grave underneath the cold Gotham sky.

But this?

To be changed so much that you didn't even look like  _you_ anymore.

Your hands were shaking.

It was obscene. It was monstrous. And in the back of your head, some strange, distant part of you wanted to believe that it was all a dream.

Your feet were backing away without you even noticing; it was hard to look away from the pained, flailing thing that Felicia had become. The back of your feet hit something solid, huge, and you stumbled.

You hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of you, still staring transfixed at...you swallowed. It hurt to think of it– _her_ , as Felicia.

The room felt hot, stifling, when it had been cold only a few seconds ago. Your vision shimmered at the edges. A shifting underneath your feet tore your attention away from the hanging body. You scrambled back with a hastily bit-off scream. There, lying on the floor, was another one of Pyg’s victims. His massive form lay slumped over the ground, the fingers of one hand still twitching.

The rise and fall of his chest told you that he was alive. Soon, he would rise up from the floor, like something out of a nightmare. Soon, he would have its hands wrapped around your throat again.

You had the sudden, vivid image of a single bright eye staring at you.

“Stay the hell back!” you yelled, as loud as you could.

You didn’t sound threatening. You sounded terrified. You  _were_ terrified.

The scalpel was the only thing between you and Pyg’s minion and right then, you were prepared to use it, ready to sink the blade deep into his flesh, as far as it can go.

You weren’t going to get dragged back to Pyg.

At least, not without a fight.

But the thing on the floor remained motionless, a stark contrast to Felicia, who continued to struggle against her bonds.

You could still hear people screaming for help.

The thing was  _alive,_ you could tell from the twitching fingers, the rise of fall of its chest. But it seemed asleep or more than likely, knocked out. You snuck another glance at Felicia.

Had someone been here? Someone who had strung up Felicia and knocked out her companion?

A spark of hope flared in your chest at the thought:  _someone was here._ But you were quick to squash it. Even if someone else was here, it didn’t mean that they were here to save  _you._ It could just as well be another gang trying to make for a territorial push or another supervillain, trying to make a statement.

It was best to stay hidden for now.

Hope was nice, but pragmatism will keep you  alive.

Scalpel in hand, you crept closer to the unconscious thing on the floor. Most gangs had a signature of some kind: a symbol, a certain way of killing someone, something that would distinguish them from the regular thug off the street.

If this  _was_ some sort of push for territory, you needed to know.

Easier said than done.

You didn’t know if Pyg had chosen his victims because of their size or if he did something to make them that way. Even unconscious, the thing exuded an air of menace, a sense of raw power. Corded muscles shifted underneath its skin when it moved.

You avoided looking at the thing’s hands, as you turned it over, looking for any sign that marked him as a victim of gang violence.

Broken fingernails, scraped knuckles. Long gashes that ran up the length of the thing’s forearm, crusted over with dried blood.  The hospital gown was streaked with dirt, but there was no symbol painted or torn into the cloth.

His mask was still on, the surface smooth and unbroken. It reflected what little light there was and you could almost see your own face staring back at you.

Your hand hovered over it.

Some gangs, like Joker’s Sons, would carve a smile into their victim’s faces and then leave them alive. Scarred and bleeding, but alive.

You had last heard of them months ago. Lydia had said that they were all dead.

You lowered your hand.

It wasn’t the prospect of a carved smile that scared you. It was the idea of seeing what Pyg had done.

You thought of Two Face’s men, Cobblepot’s hired thugs, the occasional addict strung out on drugs and desperation. Their eyes always had this strange, feverish shine to them, as if daring you to give them a reason to hurt you, rob you, leave your body in a ditch somewhere.

But Pyg?

He had looked at you with the cold, clear eyes of someone who was completely, utterly convinced that what he was doing was right.

As if he was doing you a favor.

You swallowed. Your fingers were trembling against the mask. There was no way you could look at whatever was underneath it. Not if you wanted to escape from this place with your sanity intact.

Above you, Felicia screamed and wailed, her voice joining Pyg’s prisoners cries for help, their combined voices creating a terrifying symphony.

You ran your hands against the man’s hospital gown, hoping to feel the outline of a knife or even better, the handle of a gun. Your fingers touched something cold. A bright flare of pain against your fingertips.

_Yes._

A knife, maybe. A big, fuck-off butcher’s knife. The kind that could do a lot of damage. You don’t need a lot of training to stab someone. Did Pyg give them weapons? They didn’t seem to have helped Felicia or whoever this poor man was.

You grabbed the knife by the blade and yanked, feeling a slight resistance. Was the knife in some sort of holster? You mumbled a quick apology to the man before planting a foot against his shoulder and pulling hard against the knife.

It came free with a wet-sounding pop.  The man underneath you shuddered, a full-body tremor and he shifted, arm half-heartedly swatting in your direction. His hand hit your leg with a light slap.

The action was so  _normal_ that you had to look away.

However monstrous his appearance, it was hard to deny that Pyg’s victims had once been human.

You could still hear the people calling for help.

You glanced up at Felicia, still swinging in her bonds, untiring. You wondered if she would keep struggling until she dropped dead from exhaustion.

You wondered if Pyg had programmed her that way.

Maybe it was too late to help her or any of the people that Pyg had “made perfect”. But it wasn’t too late for the people that he hadn’t started operating on.

They were still calling for help, still holding out for someone to save them.

You could help them.

If you were fast.

And brave.

You looked down at the knife and froze.

It wasn’t a knife at all.

Instead, it seemed to be some sort of double-sided blade, black as tar and still wet with blood. You could see the growing stain on the man’s hospital gown; he must have started bleeding again when you pulled it free.

You swallowed. Its edges were sharp, but there were grooves in the center that made it perfect for holding. It looked like a weapon, though not the kind that Pyg would give to his minions.

You didn’t know if it was relief or fear that made you feel weak, made you want to sink down onto the floor and cry.

Because the thing you were holding wasn’t a knife at all.

It was a throwing star, an odd weapon that you had never seen outside of movies.

And it was shaped like a bat.

*********

Jason came in through a broken window, glass shards crunching underneath his boots. His skin was already crawling. Back when he had been Robin, Batman had taught him how to use darkness to his advantage. How to slink from corner to corner, invisible, how to let just the sliver of his outline be seen, just so the criminals would know that  _something_ was hunting them from the shadows.

Darkness, Batman had often said, wasn’t something to be afraid of. It was a tool to be used.

But this was Pyg’s territory.

And Jason had never been a good Robin, anyway.

He resisted the urge to reach for his guns, instead keeping his hand on his grapnel gun. If the waitress was to be believed, then at least one civilian was trapped inside the Monarch Theatre and Jason didn’t want to accidentally blow them away just because he was feeling paranoid.

There had been an overturned motorcycle just outside the theatre doors. Spilled deliveries. Other than a few scratches on its gas tank and a bullet hole in its luggage box, one that had been hastily covered with duct tape, the motorcycle was pristine.

Jason had righted it, trying not to think about the implications.

It had taken him all of fifteen minutes to decide that stealing the Batmobile’s wheels was a good idea, despite knowing who it belonged to.

In places like East End and Crime Alley, hardly anything was sacred. Least of all, an old motorcycle that had been sitting in the rain for at least a day.

But no one had tried to steal its tires or started scrapping it for parts. No one had even tried to scrounge up the bits of rotting food that had been spilled on the front steps of the theatre

It seemed as if the locals avoided the Monarch Theatre with superstitious dread.

He really should call Oracle.

He didn’t

Jason could hear someone screaming, the loud, unrestrained wailing of a wild animal. It sounded male, but it was hard to tell. The echoes and the steady beat of the rain distorted the sound.

His hand—the one that wasn’t holding the grapnel gun—curled into a tight fist. Jason couldn’t wait to get to Pyg.

Anticipation made it hard for him to pace himself, make sure that his footsteps didn’t echo too loudly in the empty theatre. Even old and broken down, the Monarch Theatre still held a sense of grandeur. Faded red curtains, some of which had long since been torn down to serve as someone’s blanket. Window frames made out of carved wood, the deep gouges showing where someone had once tried to carve their name.

Jason frowned as he avoided the puddles of water that had pooled on the bare floor. He felt exposed on the ground, where he could easily be seen. But even the Monarch Theatre had its limits and he didn’t trust the rafters to hold his weight.

The small hairs on the back of his neck prickled uneasily as he made his way down the building’s halls, following the source of the screams. Even with the dim lighting, the red of his suit tended to stand out.

Jason could just picture Batman frowning at his costume choice. Easily spotted. Bigger target.

_Let them._

A burst of anger replaced the feeling of uneasiness.  _Let them_. It wasn’t as if Jason wasn’t prepared.

He could almost smile.

Batman wasn’t the only one with tricks.

The screaming abruptly cut off. He heard a meaty thud just on the other side of the door.

Jason switched on his scanners.

A final door in the hallway, one that Jason paused just before entering, switching on his scanners to see what was on the other side. Two people. Both of them lying on the floor, motionless. A length of rope dangled forlornly from one of the many gargoyles statues that adorned the theatre’s ceilings.

And there, on one of the bodies, he could see something wrapped around the legs, keeping them tight together.

Jason felt the air rush out of his lungs.

He remembered his men—the  _Knight’s men—_ the night he tried to take over Gotham. He had found some of them in the same position, hanging upside-down, screaming for help.

The aching familiarity of it was nearly enough to split him in half.

_Who do you hate?_

Jason had never been stupid enough to believe that he was dead.

But there was no one else in the room.

He swallowed.

Jason could feel a chill traveling up his spine, the knot of apprehension tight in his gut. The door opened with a creak. His scanners showed an abnormally high pulse rate. It was a wonder that their hearts didn’t burst inside their chests.

Jason knelt down to study the man lying on the floor. The one without the rope around his legs.

He didn’t want to think about him right now. 

Pyg’s minions looked muscular, solid; if someone had been able to knock them out easily, then Jason wanted to know how.

Somewhere in the back of his head, Jason thought of Bane. Batman had taught him a lot about dealing with people like Bane.

No skull fractures. No bullet wounds. The bones in his hands were cracked, likely self-inflicted. A thrown punch without any idea of how to do it properly.

Jason frowned. The man must have been in agony.

When he turned the man on his back, he saw a bloodstain on the man’s gown. Judging by the size of the stain, blood loss wasn’t the reason the man fainted.

It must have been something else.

Jason swallowed. Again, he glanced at the rope that hung from the gargoyle.

The statue seemed to leer at him.

He thought of the rumors that had spread, ever since the Ghost had made his appearance. Grown men and women screaming and pissing themselves in fear.

Some of them had still been screaming when the GCPD came to pick them up.

He wasn’t quite sure what alerted him next: the short, sharp intake of breath, the sound of footsteps against concrete or maybe, quite simply, instinct. The familiar feeling of the muscles in his back tightening, that odd, lurching sensation in his gut that told him he was in  _danger._

Maybe all three. He had learned to look out for danger ever since he was a kid on the streets of Park Row. Even when he had been sleeping, he had one hand curled around a shiv, a blunted knife or even a piece of broken glass, in case someone decided to steal his things while he slept.

These days, Jason had better weapons. But still, that old feeling seized him; that hunted-animal feeling, the uncomfortable jumping of his heart at the thought that  _someone was here._

And they wanted to kill him.

Jason nearly shot you before he ever realized who you were.

You had nearly stabbed him, too, your hand still holding up a scalpel, just minutes before you brought it down on him.

He resisted the urge the take a step back, ignored the tightening of his finger around the trigger.

He didn’t kill civilians. But he didn’t lower his gun, either.

The two of you in spoke almost perfect unison, “It’s you.”

Jason would have laughed if he hadn’t been so scared.

He had almost shot a civilian.

You lowered the scalpel, gripping it awkwardly, like you had no idea how to hold it.

“You have no idea how good it is too see you,” you muttered.

Jason could guess. Trapped in the bowels of Arkham Asylum, he used to fantasize about the same thing. Rescue. A savior.

A pretty sorry savior, in Jason’s case. He had nearly shot you.

Jason studied you, looking for any signs of injury or trauma. You didn’t look anything like Pyg’s minions, though you were wearing the same hospital gown. Ugly purple bruises circled your throat like a necklace.

Someone must have tried to strangle you.

Your pupils were too big, breathing a little too shallow.

He wondered if you realized you were shivering.

Belatedly, awkwardly, he realized that maybe he should have said something to comfort you.

He had never been good at that. Oracle could calm down even the most hysterical of victims. Nightwing was the same, sitting down with people he had just rescued, talking to them in soft, light tones.

Even Batman was able to offer comfort; cold, clipped sentences, like someone reading from a script. But after witnessing their houses being burned down by Firefly, after being held hostage by Zsasz, after being forced to shoot their fellow officers by Poison Ivy, those words must have meant something. Jason had seen civilians relax and even smile, when Batman spoke to them.

In a storm, you grabbed at any passing boat to save you.

But Jason had never been good at words.

He tried, anyway.

“Hey.” He was glad the helmet covered his face. “Are you okay?”

You glanced up at him, disbelieving.

“Not really,” you said, gesturing toward your bloodstained hospital gown, the man lying unconscious on the floor.

Jason could feel heat crawling up his neck.

“I meant, are you injured? Dizzy? Feeling lightheaded?” He hated how incompetent he sounded.

You ran your fingers through your hair, thinking. Jason noted that your fingers were crusted with dried blood.

“No, no. I don’t think so. Got banged up a bit when I was cutting up those restraints Pyg had one me. Maybe a little bit thirsty.” You glanced at him. “I don’t suppose you brought a water bottle with you?”

Should he have brought one?

“No.”

“Okay.”

You didn’t speak for a couple of minutes, and Jason wondered about the best way to send you home. You didn’t seem stable enough to be left alone.

“Sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to sound snippy. It really  _is_ good to see you.”

You tried to smile, but it looked more like a grimace. There was a bruise forming on your cheek.

He remembered how Jim Gordon would sometimes take off his coat to wrap around shivering children.

Aaron Cash, who kept stuffed animals in the back of his car, to give children something to hold on to.

He remembered how cold he had been, deep in the bowels of Arkham Asylum.

When Jason next spoke, his words were halting, awkward. Offering comfort had never come naturally to him.

“Are you cold?” he asked. “Do you want my jacket?”

He could feel his face heating up, the scar on his cheek burning. He  _really_ wasn’t good at this.

If you noticed Jason’s embarrassment, you didn’t say.

“Yeah,” you said with a grimace. “That’d be nice, thanks. I’ve been freezing my ass off ever since I woke up.”

Jason tried to make the exchange as perfunctory as possible, formal, but still, a part of him felt uneasy at giving up a part of his costume.

Despite the long-sleeved shirt he was wearing underneath, he was sure you would see the scars.

Suddenly, he was fiercely, irrationally grateful for the dim lighting. It was an effort not to slink away into the shadows and hide.

“Thanks,” you said again. The jacket nearly swallowed you; a child playing dress-up. Your fingers barely peeked through the edge of the sleeves.

But when you smiled, it looked a little more genuine, your eyes a little less blank.

Even the bruises around your throat looked lighter.

The knot in Jason’s chest eased.

“This is nice. Do I get to keep it?”

Jason snorted; he couldn’t help it. Even from a distance, the shining red bat on its back was hard to miss.

“No. You don’t want it, either. You’d end up a target for every gang in Gotham City.”

The ones the Red Hood had left alive, anyway.

He scanned the dim hallway where you had come from, Pyg’s unconscious “dolls”, and the one closed door left in the room.

“Can you tell me what happened here?” he asked. “I heard screaming.”

You flushed, seeming to borrow deeper into the jacket.

“I uh...tried to cut her down. I found one of those shuriken things. I didn’t realize...didn’t think...” you trailed off. You avoided looking at the unconscious bodies.

_She?_

Jason glanced back down at the unconscious dolls: broad shoulders, flat chests, increased musculature. He remembered what Oracle said, how Pyg had cut off his victims’ genitals, how he burned away their fingerprints.

He felt sick.

“I wasn’t thinking, I guess,” you said in a small voice. “I just wanted to get her down.”

You stared up at him, eyes shining.

“Did I kill her?” you asked.

He was still staring at the dolls. One hand twitched feebly; open hand, fist, open hand, fist. Jason wondered if they dreamed.

“They’re both alive,” he said. “What did you use to cut the rope?”

If the rope belonged to who Jason suspected, not a lot of things could cut through it.

You pointed to a spot on the floor, where something caught the lights and gleamed. Jason didn’t move. He didn’t have to. Even half-obscured in shadow, there was no mistaking the wicked edge of a Batarang. He remembered the many hours he had spent in the Batcave, throwing star after star, until he could just barely reach Batman’s exacting standards.

Some of them would bounce off the training dummies, hit the floor with a  _clink_ that somehow filled the whole cave. 

He remembered Alfred, always finding some excuse to stay in the cave with him, no matter how long Jason wanted to practice. An ornament that needed cleaning, something about the Batsuit that needed fixing.

Once, Alfred had given up on the excuses and simply brought a book with him, claiming that he wanted to do some light reading. 

When you moved to pick it up, Jason spoke without thinking, “Leave it alone.” 

There was a hardness in his voice that he didn’t like.

You stared at him. “I need a weapon.”

_Not that one._

He could feel a warmth in his cheeks, a hot flush of shame.

A small, petty thing. You wanting a weapon wasn’t an unreasonable request, after all. If it had been any other weapon, Jason would have said that it was smart.

But a part of him didn’t want you touching it. Didn’t want you bringing it into the light, where Jason could see it in full.

His skin was crawling, a thousand, tiny, wriggling worms just underneath the surface.

Maybe later, he can come back to examine it. Dust it for fingerprints or bring it to Oracle.

After. After he had dealt with Pyg.

When he next spoke, Jason was grateful that his voice didn’t crack., “You can borrow my knife. You’re less likely to cut your fingers off with it.”

Body armor was good for absorbing the shock of a bullet, but a quick, sudden stab would hit flesh. And Jason had always kept his knives sharp. If you made a move on him, Jason decided, he would break your arm and leave you for GCPD.

“Don’t stab me with it,” he said as he offered you the handle.

“I won’t. Thanks. Are you going to help me find the others?”

There was a second, two, where Jason’s brain came to a grinding halt.

“Others?” he said.

_How many?_

A sudden surge white-hot of rage. No missing person reports in the last few months. Pyg could have kept them here for months, in the bowels of the Monarch Theatre, and no one would have known.

Like Jason.

It had taken him far, far too long to understand that no one was coming to save him.

“They’ve gone quiet,” you said flatly. “I heard them screaming a while ago.”

Something in the way you said it set him on edge. What could possibly make several people, desperate for help, stop screaming for it?

_Footsteps._

_Joker’s laughter._

_The sound of his cell door opening._

Jason blinked away the memories.

You were already walking away from him, towards the last closed door in the room. The red bat on the back of his jacket was the brightest thing in the room. You were holding on to his knife so tightly that it must have hurt.

He hadn’t taken you for suicidal.

“Stop.”

He hadn’t expected you to follow his orders, but you did. When you turned around, Jason was surprised to see that the expression on your face wasn’t the dreamy blankness he’d  expected.

It wasn’t the face of someone who was desperately trying to convince themselves that it was all just a dream.

No, your eyes were clear.

And you looked  _terrified._

You knew  _exactly_ what you were getting into.

Jason leaned down so that the two of you were to eye to eye–though there was no way you could have known that–and said, “The door behind me, it leads to another hallway. If you keep going, you’re going to find a room with a broken window. You can throw my jacket over the windowsill so you won’t cut yourself when you climb out. Your motorcycle is still outside.”

If Batman was here– _maybe he was–_ he would have frowned at those instructions. He had a habit of leaving Jason with the civilians to make sure that they were safe.

You opened your mouth then closed it again without saying anything.

Jason waited, impatiently.

Maybe Pyg had already knows that he was here. Maybe he was already leaving the building.

But Jason waited.

“Do you need help?” You asked the question in a tone that said that you were desperately hoping he’d say no.

But he knew that if Jason said yes, you would stay. Not for him, maybe not even to prove something to yourself. You would stay because  _someone_ needed help.

He felt his respect for you rise several notches.

He really should say no.

It would be wisest choice of action.

But Jason had no idea how many civilians were trapped down here, how many of Pyg’s dolls were still roaming the theatre, how he can be in two places at once–to find Pyg and rescue the civilians.

If he called Robin or Nightwing, would they stop him from killing Pyg? Would Batman? Jason didn’t want to take the chance.

If Pyg escaped, if he was allowed to live, his next victims would have two killers: Pyg for killing them, and Jason for allowing it to happen.

No, for this one, Jason needed no interference.

“I’ll go first. Keep that knife where I can see it.”

*********

 

This was perhaps the dumbest idea you’d ever had in your life.

You should have run, should have followed that door, down the hallway, into the room with the broken window. You should have climbed out of it, to look up at Gotham’s night sky, the Batsignal burning bright against the inky blackness.

You should have.

You didn’t.

Instead, you were walking barefoot behind Gotham City’s most dangerous vigilante, holding onto a knife so tightly that your fingers had gone numb.

You wondered if Pyg had somehow removed your survival instinct when you had been asleep. You wondered if you had an unconscious death wish.

But it wasn’t that. Somewhere in the back of your head, you knew that the moment you had seen  _Felicia,_ what Pyg had done to her.

You couldn’t turn away from that. Not if these people needed your help.

The hallway was eerily silent, aside from your the sound of your footsteps, the soft slap of flesh on concrete. You wondered how you were making more noise than the Red Hood when he was the one wearing heavy combat boots.

Doors lined the hallway, some still decorated with faded white stars.

“Shouldn’t we check some of them?” you whispered. You tried to make your voice as low as possible, but even that small noise bounced off the walls.

You could hear your own voice answering you.

Red Hood shook his head once and then turned back to you to tap his helmet. Maybe he had some sort of tech inside his helmet that let him see past the walls.

Silently, he pointed towards one of the doors at the end of the hallway.

You swallowed. Resisted the urge to bring the knife higher, to defend yourself against some imaginary foe.

“How many?” you asked softly.

_Many, many, many,_ the hallway echoed.

Your skin crawled with dread. It wasn’t hard to imagine Pyg lurking behind one of the doors, listening to every word you said.

Red Hood, at least, had the good sense to keep his mouth shut. He spread out both of his hands, then closed them into fists. Brought up four more fingers.

Fourteen people just behind that door.

Fourteen people who, just like you, had been screaming out for a savior.

He held up one finger and gestured to his mask, tugged gently at your hospital gown.

You felt your throat close.

One of Pyg’s minions. Just behind that door. A part of you wanted to reach out, childlike, and hold onto the hem of the vigilante’s shirt. You actually felt your fingers twitch with the urge to do it.

When the two of you reached the door, Red Hood held up three fingers.

Anticipation hummed underneath your skin like a current. Every sensation felt magnified. You could feel the cold air blowing against your legs, a drop of sweat snaking down the back of your neck.

Two fingers.

His gun was in his hand. Something in your chest burned at the sight of it.

The red of his helmet seemed to flicker and for a second, you could have sworn you saw his eyes.

One.

Red Hood kicked the door in with an almighty  _bang,_ the sound of it echoing across the room. Bits of wood and chipped paint scattered across the floor.

_Pyg heard that, he definitely heard that._

You saw fourteen heads lifting up in unison at the sound.

You saw their eyes widening in disbelief as they processed the scene: Gotham City’s most dangerous vigilante, coming to save them.

And you saw something else: Hope. Elation.

Rows and rows of patient beds filled the room, though the scene looked like something out of a nightmare than a hospital. You saw fourteen people held down by thick leather straps, you saw blood-soaked sheets and rusty scalpels and used syringes. The room smelled of sweat and blood and desperation.

And at the end of the room, was one of Pyg’s minions, seemingly-startled by the Red Hood’s sudden entrance.

You realized that this one had been in the middle of checking up on the prisoners, You felt a shimmer of nausea at the sudden vivid image of the masked man checking the tightness of their straps, poking and prodding Pyg’s “patients” with rotten fingers; a horrible parody of a nurse.

No wonder Pyg’s prisoners had fallen silent.

The man shuffled towards the two of you, his gait was uneven, a stutter-stop motion that sent a shiver up your spine. He moved not like a human being, but like a broken toy; Red Hood stepped in front of you.

He seemed taller somehow, his stance wider. The tips of his gloved fingers just barely brushed the handle of his guns. You realized that he was shielding you from view.

The man in the doll’s mask burst into action, running straight for the two of you. He wasn’t graceful by any stretch of the imagination, but there was a horrible  _solidness_ to him. Hands outstretched as if to strangle you once again, torn fingernails and crusted blood and soon they would be around your throat and maybe this time you won’t wake up.

Red Hood drew one of his guns and fired.

The man’s knee cap exploded in a burst of blood and gore. He went down with a guttural scream that seemed unnaturally loud in the small room.

Cries of shock and panic rose from Pyg’s bound prisoners.

_...shouldn’t have done that…_

_Let me out!_

_Oh God, others will come. Let me out, let me out, LET ME OUT!_  

Blood pooled underneath the man’s body, soaking his hospital gown. It looked almost too red. The room smelled like iron, like rust.

Red Hood watched impassively as the man crawled, scrabbled like an animal on the ground. You could hear his ragged breathing.

One bloodied hand reached out, clawlike, towards the vigilante.

He must have been in agony.

All around you, people were yelling, calling for help.

_Help me--_

_That lunatic in the Pyg’s mask_

_...going to come back…_

But you couldn’t look away from the man on the floor. He was still crawling, inch by painful inch, bleeding, maybe crying, to get at the Red Hood.  He made odd choking sounds that might have been an attempt to speak.

There was a tightness in your chest; pity and revulsion so tightly mingled that it was hard to tell one from the other.

And fear, so tight around your throat it was hard to breathe. If you closed your eyes, you could almost feel his hands around your throat.

You turned away.

When you looked down at your hands, you saw that your fingers were shaking.

You had to remind yourself why you were here; why you stayed. There were others here like you, and maybe it wasn’t too late for them.

The first one you approached was a woman, dark hair and wide, terrified eyes. She looked  _through_ you, rather than at you, as you approached. Bruises dotted the inside of her arm, and her lips were moving soundlessly. You thought that maybe she was praying.

The leather straps parted easily underneath the knife; you barely needed to put any force into it. One arm, and then the next, then the legs. It was almost easy, if you avoided looking at the woman you were freeing. She didn’t even react when you had cut her loose.

But the other prisoners had taken notice, and the room once more erupted into furious noise.

_Hey, you with the knife, cut me loose next!_

_Please, I need to go home._

_Been here for weeks!_

Fourteen people, all desperate to be freed. Bright, shining eyes all turned to you. All speaking at once, over each other, wanting to be heard.

You felt the world tilt, gravity shift, and there was a heartbeat, maybe two, when you desperately wished that this was all a dream.

You closed your eyes, trying to keep the screaming from drowning out your thoughts. You could feel your lungs burning, like you weren’t taking in enough oxygen.

You couldn't remember ever feeling this scared.

“Hey.” When you opened your eyes, you saw Red Hood staring at you. He had stripped one of the empty beds and used the bedsheets as a makeshift tourniquet around the man’s injured leg. You could see the dirty white sheets growing steadily redder.

You could feel your cheeks heating up. How stupid you must look to him right now, insisting on coming and freezing at the first sight of conflict.

But instead of speaking again, the vigilante jerked his head towards the other beds.

_Get going._

No reprimand, no hard words, no anything. Something in your chest eased.

Underneath the mask, you could imagine him smiling. Or at the very least, smirking.

The next prisoner came easier, a man this time, who watched you with fever-bright eyes. When the straps came free, he sat up immediately. You could see the deep grooves that lined his wrists.

He rubbed them, grimacing.

“Thanks. That fucker’s been keeping us down here for ages. Don’t worry about Janet, I’ll take care of her. Get the others.”

He moved slowly, like an old man, though he couldn’t have been more than thirty. You could see a bedsore on his elbow, glistening with yellow-green pus.

You looked away, feeling sick.

Twelve people left. Twelve people and you could go home, pull the sheets over your head, and pretend that this never happened.

The desire for safety was so intense that it felt like a physical ache. It was a tempting thing, to pretend that this was all just a nightmare, to act like this was someone else’s duty.

You felt warm fingers on your shoulder, and felt a shiver down your spine. You could almost feel ice-cold fingers wrapping around your throat again.

You looked up, expecting to see a bone-white mask and dead, blue eyes. Instead, you saw the Red Hood, looking down at you.

Even with the blankness of his helmet, he looked more human than any of Pyg’s minions.

When he spoke was low, rough. “Can you handle things here?”

“Wait, you’re leaving?” Your voice came out high, whiny, a child’s voice instead of your own.

“Pyg could still be here, I need to find him.” As he spoke, his hand tightened on the grip of his gun. You wondered if he noticed that.

You looked back at the twelve prisoners; the man you had freed had started tending to Janet, one hand wrapped around her shoulders as he sat her up.

A part of you wanted to scream at him, beg him not to leave you to tend to these people.

A part of you wanted this to be someone else’s problem.

And yet, and yet.

Your eyes kept getting drawn back to Pyg’s minion. Red Hood had dressed his wound and tied him to one of the empty beds, using the same leather straps that Pyg had used to tie down his victims. He tossed his head mindlessly, sending the doll’s mask askew.

Even from a distance, you could see the mass of scar tissue that covered the man’s face.

You wanted to ask Red Hood to stay, to not leave you responsible for these people. But when you opened your mouth, different words tumbled out.

“Are you going to kill him?”

You felt him tense, his hand tightening on your shoulder. It struck you then how  _powerful_ he looked. This was the man who had walked into the Monarch Theatre alone, knowing exactly what was inside it.

“Yes.”

Red Hood took his hand off your shoulder and took a step back.

“Do you think I’m wrong?” he asked. He didn’t say it the way you had expected him to: angry, cynical, a hardened vigilante too set in his ways to hear anyone else.

For the first time since you had met him, Red Hood sounded  _unsure._

It struck you then how  _young_ he sounded.

You had always thought of the Red Hood as an older man, someone bitter and cynical, someone who had lived too long, seen too much of human ugliness.

For the first time, you wondered who it really was underneath that mask.

You wondered what it would mean for you to answer him.

You thought of wild animals, the feral dogs that would sometimes roam the streets of Gotham. Fever-bright eyes flashing in the darkness of the streets, their mouths foaming with saliva. They slunk in alleyways like hungry shadows, snapping at anyone who came too close.

You wondered if that was all Pyg was; a rabid dog to be put down.

You wondered if he had a family, once.

“No. I don’t think so.”

You wondered if wanting him dead made you a monster.

Red Hood tilted his head at you in acknowledgement.

And then he was turning back, to leave you alone with Pyg’s victims. A responsibility so heavy that you could almost feel the physical weight of it.

He paused at the door, almost like he was forgetting something.

His next words came at a mumble, so low that you barely heard them.

“Stay safe.”

*****

Jason could hear blood roaring in his ears.

His footsteps echoed across the empty hallways.

In his head, he could hear Batman’s admonishments; too much noise, too much emotion, too little rational thought.

When he turned on his scanners, he could see figures in the next room; bright orange skeletons against a glowing red background. Some of them wandered listlessly, pausing every few seconds to look up at the ceiling. Others simply stood in their place. He could hear the strains of opera music seeping underneath the door.

Jason wondered what they were thinking, if they even  _have_ the capacity left to think or if Pyg hollowed them out completely. Nothing left in their heads except Pyg’s voice, and his thoughts and his orders.

He could feel the scar on his face throbbing, fingers pressing against his face, ice-cold where the brand had burned.  Nails digging into the scar, blood running down his cheeks. Giggling in his ears.

_He’s mine, mine, mine, now._

Jason blinked rapidly, willing away the memories.

_Focus._

At a place like this, distraction could easily get him killed.

He scanned the figures, looking for someone who could be Pyg. Even from a distance, the damage that Pyg had done to them was obvious. Jason could see the dark lines that marked where the skulls had been fractured, the odd, uneven set of the bones.

His throat felt dry. He could feel his own body ache in sympathy.

As one, the figures glanced up, like hounds catching a scent.

The faint sound of wheels creaking, seeming unnaturally loud in the silence of the halls.

Someone speaking hoarsely, almost too low for his helmet’s sensors to pick up.

_Please stop._

_Help, please--_

An old-fashioned gurney, its metal railings glowing underneath his helmet’s sensors, was being wheeled up some sort of podium.

“Someone help me, please!” A man’s voice, brittle with fear and exhaustion.

Jason glanced up.

In a bid of madness or genius, whoever had first designed Gotham’s architecture fitted it with large air vents, ones that ran along the length of entire buildings.

When he had been training with Batman, he had taught Jason how to use them. How to drop from the ceiling right on top of unsuspecting thugs, how to listen in on hidden conversations.

Sometimes, Scarecrow or Joker would release gas through these vents; hundreds of people screaming and tearing at their skin, looking for invisible insects or laughing madly, tears streaming down their faces.

Maybe that was why the newer buildings like GCPD and Wayne Tower didn’t have them.

But the Monarch Theatre was old; old enough to be one of Gotham City’s original buildings.

There was one, just above Jason’s head, and according to his scanners, one that led right into the room with all of Pyg’s dolls. And the person strapped to the gurney.

The whirr of his grapnel gun was almost silent as Jason clambered up the vent. The small duct just barely fit around him, and the air inside was nearly broiling.

Jason wrinkled his nose at the heat; sweat ran freely down his face.

He’d always wondered how Batman managed to be so silent whenever he had to use the vents. Inside it, every odd bang and scrape seemed magnified. He suspected that the only reason why he hadn’t been discovered yet was because of the opera music, which echoed across the narrow space.

Below him, his scanners showed Pyg’s dolls, standing eerily still. He’d been using the scanners for too long, Jason’s eyes were beginning to water from the strain. He switched it off.

Batman had once given him maps that marked the path of every air vent in Gotham’s buildings, the place of every gargoyle statue that could function as a vantage point.

In the back of his head, he knew that there would be a grate within the next ten feet. But still, Jason had to fight to keep from screaming.

The space was too small, too narrow. It reminded him of a coffin.

Just when he thought that he was going to have to shoot his way out, Jason saw the grate, thin ribbons of light emanating from the thin gaps in the metal. The air that seeped through the metal bars was mercifully cool.

From his vantage point, he could see that the room was actually the auditorium; rows and rows of faded seats, meant to house and entertain hundreds of people stood empty, except for Pyg’s dolls, still standing eerily in their place.

Each one of them had bandages wrapped around their heads; some with blood still seeping through them. Disgust curled in Jason’s gut; Pyg treated them like toys, too cheap to bother fixing once he had broken them.

Some trembled while they stood, though if that was from exhaustion or fear or something else, Jason had no idea.

He counted twenty-four of them and sucked in his breath.

If they had been thugs, willing participants to Pyg’s sickness, this would have been easy. A bullet to the head or the chest, something that would permanently incapacitate them. But they were victims, broken and hammered and twisted until nothing of their old selves remained.

Like Jason.

His fingers twitched; he didn’t want to hurt these people more than was necessary; certainly not kill them.

_“Ladies and gentlemen!”_

A voice boomed across the theater, and the dolls turned in unison to the stage, a captive audience.

Jason thought that he might vomit.

The lights dimmed.

A spotlight on the stage.

Jason could see a man in a surgical gown ascending the stage, the light following him, like an actor in a play. He was wearing a pig’s mask.

Jason’s heart was thudding dully inside his chest. If he had the space for it, he could have taken the shot, could have placed a bullet right in the center of Pyg’s porcelain mask and ended all of this before it began. But he was all too aware of the metal pressing against his shoulders, his legs. He could just barely reach the grip of his guns.

At the center of the stage was the gurney, a man strapped to it, struggling against his bonds. The man’s mouth was moving, maybe begging, maybe screaming for help. But the music drowned out his voice.

But not Pyg’s.

_“Ladies and gentlemen!”_ he said again. He must have been wearing some sort of mic, because his voice swept across the theatre. His voice was high with excitement, almost girlish; a stark contrast to the man’s massive frame.

The dolls tittered in their place.  

_The sick bastard wanted people to watch._

Pyg giggled, a thick, cloying sound in the back of his throat, not unlike an actual pig’s snort.

“ _I present to you, our newest_ family member.” Pyg swept out his hands grandly, indicating the man in the gurney.

Joker’s voice, whispering in his ear,  _Did you get that, Bats? Kid’s not yours anymore. He’s mine. Mine, mine, mine. To do with as I wish._

Rage boiled over him like heat, and the half-formed plan in Jason’s mind vanished. Batman’s admonishments about his recklessness, Alfred’s concerned face, even Oracle’s soft voice, was all swept away in a wave of rage.

No well thought-out plans, no striking from the shadows. Jason wanted Pyg dead, as quickly and brutally as possible.

He wanted to look into Pyg’s eyes when he pulled the trigger, he wanted the bastard to  _understand_ that he was going to die.

He wanted him to be afraid.

Just like Jason had been.

Hands reaching for the small pockets on his belt, around the small, modified flashbangs he had. It took him maybe a minute to rip off the old, rusted grate, the shriek of ruined metal covered by the music and Pyg’s rambling.

At the last second, Jason paused, just long enough to take in the situation.

Twenty-four thugs, some of them armed with scalpels and surgical scissors. Jason would be forced to use non-lethal shots, if he even shot them at all.

And then there was Pyg himself; Jason had no idea how he would be like in a fight. If he was strong or weak, if he would face Jason head on or hide behind his dolls and escape.

But then again, it didn’t matter.

Tonight was going to end with Pyg dead.

Jason dropped the sound bomb, straight down, into the heart of the theater.

And the world exploded in a burst of color and noise.


	11. Death Follows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay! The last few months got away from me, and I did not expect to take this long in writing the next chapter. But anyway, thank you to everyone who commented! You have no idea how inspiring your comments/messages/asks are. Thank you! And Merry Christmas/happy holidays to everyone! You readers are a gift, and I'm so grateful for you all 
> 
> My thanks to Winterbugsy for all of her encouragement, to RedPirate for help with editing and all her input in this chapter. And to MisterPseudonymous, who helped me plot out this chapter months ago, and who listens to my mad ramblings with the patience of a saint.
> 
> It's 3 am, I'm stuffed with Christmas dinner, but I really wanted to get this chapter out. Hope you all enjoy!

 

> “It seems the stories about you are true after all, that death follows you around like a dog because you feed it so well.” _Hell to Pay,_ Simon Green.

*****

The first thing that struck Jason was their silence. People who’ve been hit with flashbangs aren’t quiet; they scream and stumble, cover their eyes to protect themselves, swinging their fists blindly trying to hit him.

All this was rushing through his mind as he fell, twenty, thirty feet down onto the heart of Monarch Theatre, the whirr of his grappling gun loud in his ears.

Even with the gun to break his fall, the impact hurt, hard enough to rattle his teeth and send jolts of pain running up his injured leg.

He was already breathing hard, and Jason remembered how, when he had been Robin, he would leap off buildings without even thinking of the consequences.

Somehow, he had always believed that something would catch him on the way down.

Jason pushed away the sudden tide of memories, feeling sick.

All around him, Jason could feel the weight of the Dolls’ stares, their eyes shining feverishly bright. He could see Pyg, standing frozen in the stage, scalpel still in hand.

This wasn’t supposed to be part of the script.

A cruel smile tugged on Jason’s lips.

He could be theatrical, too, when he wanted.

“Show’s over.”  

And he raised one of his guns and fired.

The sound of it rolled across the empty theatre like thunder, cutting easily through the music, and Pyg dived out of the way, screaming, squealing, like an actual pig in a slaughterhouse.

The shot was wild; it hit the curtain high above Pyg’s head, raining dust down on him and his prisoner. Jason couldn’t afford to make a mistake, in case the bastard decided to use the man as a human shield.

But he could make one hell of an impression.

Besides, Jason wanted Pyg to _know._

And he wanted him to be afraid.

“ _Bad! Bad! Bad!_ ” Pyg’s screams resounded across theatre, would have deafened Jason if not for the sound dampeners in his helmet. “Kill him, my darlings! _Kill him!”_

Like a switch had been flicked on inside them, Pyg’s Dolls came alive, and they surged toward him, as relentless as a tidal wave.

Some with dull scalpels in hand, others with surgical scissors. Others came at him with their bare fists, hands extended like claws. They didn’t seem bothered at all bothered by the smoke, which by all rights, should have had them choking on their own lungs by now. Though a few them did swipe at empty air around them like they couldn’t quite see what was going on.

“ _Show him! Show him how perfect you are!_ _Show him what Pyg has done for you!”_ And just like that, Pyg was laughing again, a high, cruel sound, utterly devoid of sanity.

From his scanners, Jason could see the Dolls’ broken bones, the thin lines across their craniums where Pyg had cut them open.

“I can see what you did to them, you sick bastard,” he spat.

His hands itched for his guns, for a quick solution. Broken and mindless though they were, the Dolls were large, and in enough numbers, they could do a lot of damage.

But these people have suffered enough.

Jason started moving backward, closer to the walls of the theatre. The Dolls’ movements were slow, uncoordinated; they stumbled over the rows of seats, some of them clearly had trouble keeping their balance.

But their hands were full of sharp instruments; rusted scalpels and broken scissors, and their fists were massive.

He remembered the thugs that Joker had hired to dress up like Batman, and how they came at him with fists and steel-toed boots. Joker’s laughter drowning out his screams.

Jason’s lips pulled back into a snarl.

Cold sweat ran down the back of his neck.

But he wasn’t attacking just yet.

They didn’t seem affected by the smoke bombs he had, and he didn’t want to shoot them. His best chance with this many enemies was to get them to start attacking in groups and get in each other’s way. They didn’t seem to have the capacity for coordinated attacks.

Jason kept backing up until he felt his back hit the wall; at least he didn’t have to worry about getting struck from behind.

They were closing in on him now, converging around him in a half-circle, their arms bumping against each other as they closed the gaps.

On the stage, Pyg let out a wet-sounding giggle.

But the Dolls were utterly silent. The only sound they made was the shuffling of their feet, the swish of a scalpel as it sliced at empty air.

_Closer._

His hand brushed against the handle of his grappling gun.

The Dolls’ could barely move freely now. Too congested. Soon, one or two of them would attack, and then herd instinct will make the rest follow.

Jason wondered if this was how Pyg hunted his prey; using his Dolls to overwhelm them with sheer numbers and then beating them unconscious.

And they would wake up, strapped to an old-fashioned gurney, with a madman staring back at them through cold, cruel eyes.

No wonder you had looked terrified.

Jason felt a sudden stab of guilt at leaving the living victims alone.

And for a split second, the Dolls went still. Jason recognized the sudden silence, the building tension in their muscles; a predator’s utter quiet, just before it pounced.

And one of the Doll’s attacked, bare fists extended like claws. Another followed, coming at him with a scalpel, its edge dulled with rust and blood.

The sound of opera music boomed across the theatre, Pyg’s high laughter, watching it all play out as if they were all characters in a play.

The bare-handed one came first, and Jason could see his eyes inside the mask; pupils so big that they looked almost black.

The grappling gun made a whirring noise as Jason fired, rope wrapping around one bloodied hand, the heavy metal hook making it hard for him to balance. All it took was a tug of Jason’s wrist for the Doll to stumble–straight into the second one. They crashed to the floor, a tangle of mass and limbs, and a scalpel swinging wildly, trying to find flesh.

It stabbed at the unarmed Doll, over and over and over, heedless of the shrieks of pain, heedless of anything, except obeying Pyg’s orders. In his scanners, he saw the scalpel tear through muscle and tissue, saw the blade snap off in the struggling Doll’s flesh.

But still, the second one kept stabbing with the broken nub, blind, mindless.

Dark blood spread across the hospital gown, and Pyg laughed and laughed and laughed.

_“It doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter, I can make more, more, more! Kill him!_ Kill him! _”_

Jason stamped down on the attacking Doll’s face, hearing the porcelain mask crack and break underneath his boot. He felt the thing’s nose shatter, too. He felt it grow still.

He knew, he _knew_ that he should stop the bleeding, stop the injured Doll from clawing at its injured flesh, tearing open the hospital gown, digging deep furrows into its skin to get the blade out.

Its shrieks were sharp enough to hurt.

But the other Dolls were surging forward now, raw animal instinct compelling them to move together. They were big, but they had no idea how to use their bodies, scrambling over one another trying to get to Jason first.

Some of them made soft, whimpering noises.

His chest felt too tight, his breath coming out in ragged gasps.

It was hard to believe that they had once been human, that these Dolls could ever _be_ human again.

An image of Joker’s smiling face flashed behind his eyes.

And Jason was moving again, grabbing one of the extended arms and pulling hard, momentum making the Doll stumble forward. He screeched, threw out his free arm to claw at Jason’s face, fingers bouncing harmlessly off the surface of Jason’s helmet.

Jason turned.

And drove the Doll’s face straight into the wall behind him; the mask exploding in a hail of dust and porcelain fragments. The Doll went limp.

Another hand, reaching for the back of Jason’s shirt, nearly choking him.

He whirled around, his fist catching the Doll full in the face. The crack of porcelain, the sting of pain in his knuckles, and the sudden, vivid memory of acid dripping down his fingers.

The Doll staggered back, blood seeping from the cracks in its mask.

But still, more and more came to take its place, hands already reaching for Jason.

_That look in your eye..._

He could beat them. No matter how many of these Dolls Pyg sent at him, he could beat them.

Two more, trying hard not to trip over each other’s feet. Clumsy, stumbling gait, bloodied hands reaching for him. Fingers so rotted with gangrene that Jason could see bone. His skin crawled at the sight of them.

It should have been the easiest thing in the world to put a bullet between their eyes.

This should have been easy.

_...it’s why he left you to die._

He rammed his fist into an approaching Doll’s solar plexus, his eyes already on the next Doll, fast approaching with a pair of surgical scissors in hand.

Soft fingers digging into the flesh of his arm.

The Doll was still gripping Jason, barely even fazed by a punch that should have knocked the wind out of him. Blackened flesh leaving bloody streaks on the sleeve of his shirt.

Jason stared at it.

The scar on his face blazed, as hot as the day it had been branded on his cheek.

Pain exploded across his shoulder as the blade of a scissor dug into him, ripping through his body armor.

Stupid. He shouldn’t have stopped moving. Shouldn’t have–

The Doll yanked the scissors back, tearing through flesh and cloth, white-hot electricity racing down Jason’s arm. He gritted his teeth, grimaced.

The blades hadn’t penetrated deeply enough to do any real damage, but the Doll was already pulling back for another strike.

His hand reached for a knife that wasn’t there.

He had a second one in his boot, but the Dolls were crowding him now, so close that Jason could feel the heat of their bodies, smell the stink of rotting flesh…

And then the lights cut out.

It took the scanners in his helmet all of a second to switch to night vision.

A second was enough.

He saw a large hand reaching for him in the darkness, a Doll’s face looking back into his own, and he saw no hate, no fear, no determination, nothing that ever suggested that it was once human.

It grabbed his helmet.

And slammed his head back onto the wall, the crunch of his helmet deafening in Jason’s ears.

More hands reaching out for him, tugging at his shirt, his hands, he felt teeth sinking into his flesh.

The second slam destroyed the scanners in his helmet, his vision becoming hazy. The Doll’s faces contorted, melted, until they were all one person, corpse-pale and grinning maniacally at Jason.

When they pulled him down, he couldn’t find it in him to resist.

And then they were swarming him, punching and kicking and biting, and he was Robin again, looking up at Batman, bloodied lips pleading, pleading for someone to save him.

He felt the brand burn into his cheek, over and over and over. He could smell the stink of cooked flesh.

In the distance, someone was laughing at him.

*********  

In the darkness, all you could hear was screaming.

_What happened?_

_What’s going on?_

_Oh God, he knows, he knows we’re out._

_Where’s the door?_

_Don’t leave me here, please!_

You swallowed, feeling sweat running down the back of your neck.

When you reached out a hand, you could barely even see its outline.

In the corner, you could hear the man that Red Hood had shot, thrashing in its restraints, bellowing like a wild animal.

It wasn’t hard to believe that something in the darkness might leap out at you.

Red Hood’s knife felt small in your hand.

How can you fight something that you couldn’t even see coming?

You could hear the muffled sounds of hands banging against the wall, people screaming for help.

_Let us out! Let us out!_

_Oh God, please, please, save us…._

You closed your eyes, though it hardly made a difference.

How much more of this can you take? Hot tears slid down your cheeks, and for perhaps all of a second, you were grateful that no one could see them.

“Calm down. We’ll be okay.” But your voice was so soft, so low that no one seemed to have heard it.

Perhaps the worst thing about the blackness was the isolation _;_ fifteen people, each trying to deal with the sudden loss of vision on their own. The chill of the air was seeping into you, and you were suddenly grateful for Red Hood’s jacket.

_Red Hood._

What would he have done in this situation?

You raised your voice.

“Everyone, _shut up!_ ” Terror made your voice high and reedy, but it carried across the room. “Shut the _hell up_ or we’re all going to die!”

The screamers heard it first, their voices breaking and fading out into soft, broken sobs.

The banging on the walls slowed, then stilled, as people began to tire.

Soon, the only sound left in the room was the wild, animal thrashing of Pyg’s minion. You found yourself slowly inching away from the source of the sound.

Surely Red Hood wouldn’t have left you alone if he wasn’t sure that the restraints would hold…

In a flash of cold sweat, you had a sudden, vivid image of the man breaking free from the thick leather straps that held him, of him silently circling you in the darkness.

You swallowed down a scream.

Someone to your left spoke, a woman with a voice that sounded hoarse from screaming, “What do we do now?”

You realized that they were waiting for _you_ to answer.

Even in the gloom, you could somehow _feel_ the weight of their stares on you.

“I...don’t know. Does...does anyone have any light on them?” Your speech was slurred as if your mouth refused to form the words.

Heat crawled up your neck.

What did you know about rescuing people?

A man answered; he sounded young. “I don’t think so or we’d be using them.”

“Right.” A flush of heat swept across your face. “Sorry about that. Look, all this banging and screaming isn’t going to help anybody. We don’t want to attract any attention. Who knows how many of... _them_ are still out there.”

Once again, the room grew silent as you listened to the broken man’s screams, the creak of the metal frame as he struggled to break free.

Your eyes were getting used to the darkness now, and you could see their shapes shudder at the thought of encountering another one of Pyg’s minions.

“Okay.” The man spoke again, softly this time. “How do we get out?”

You wanted to know that, too.

You remembered Red Hood mentioning that he got in through a broken window.

“Keep your hands to the wall,” you ordered. “Keep walking until you find the door. From there, take the hallway on the _left side_. That’s where we came from. Red Hood said that we can get out through a broken window.”

You paused, your thoughts whirling. “Stick together. Hold hands if you have to, but don’t lose each other. So far, these...things only seem to patrol alone or in groups of twos or threes. If you worked together, you could overpower them.”

You could feel your heart beating against your throat. You felt sick.

You reached out blindly, grasping at a shape in front of you until you felt someone’s hand.

Their hands felt rough, covered in scars and calluses, but they gripped at you like you were a lifeline.

“Take this,” you said, and before you could change your mind, you pressed the handle of Red Hood’s knife against their palm. “In case you see more of Pyg’s men.”

“Wait, you’re not coming with us?” an older woman asked. She was close to you, so much that you could feel her breath against your face as she spoke.

You shook your head, then realized that they couldn’t have seen it and said, “No.”

“Someone cut the lights,” you said slowly. “It can’t have been Red Hood, because he knows that we’re here. And Pyg loves his stupid opera music too much to cut the power for no reason.”

“You think the Red Hood’s in trouble,” a woman said.

It had been in the back of your mind ever since the lights had been cut. A sinking feeling in your gut that something shapeless, something terrible was happening to him.

Someone barked out a laugh, harsh and guttural, like their throat was filled with broken glass. “And you think _you_ can save him? The Red Hood can take care of himself, girl. Come with us. You don’t want to get in his way.”

You wanted to agree with him. You wanted someone to take your hand and guide you out of this nightmare. You wanted to pretend that the Monarch Theatre never existed.

But if you were right, if he _died_ here because you didn’t look for him…

“Maybe I can find the breaker switch, too,” you said.

It was a flimsy excuse and you all knew it.

The sound of cloth shifting, like someone shrugging.

“It’s your funeral.”

_Funeral._

Your fingertips tingled, right along the lines where Pyg’s scalpel had cut into you. When you ran your thumb along it, the skin was smooth.

As if you had never been injured, never been cut.

Red Hood had come into this place knowing you were here, probably knowing what horrors lay inside.

You didn’t think that you could live with yourself if he died because of you.

You licked your lips, felt the cracks in them, and tried to smile, though you were sure that nobody could see it.

“Don’t worry about me. I think I’ll be okay.”

*****

Jason tasted blood, the familiar coppery taste of it filling his mouth. His night vision was flickering, flashes of a large, pale fist, hammering against his helmet, over and over and over.

He could hear it beginning to crack, wondered how many blows it would take before it broke open before their fingers were reaching for his face, digging furrows into his cheeks, creating new scars.

He could hear Pyg singing, laughing.

And he could feel the Dolls’ heat as they swarmed him like bees until he felt like he was being cooked alive.

Defeat in all five senses.

_Is that why Batman left him?_

_Because he was too weak to defend himself?_

His fingers twitched.

He could still reach for his guns. He could still kill them.

He could still win.

_Jason…_

He curled his hand into a fist and punched out blindly, catching one of the Dolls square in the jaw. But more flooded in to take its place, more fists, more kicks, more pain.

He didn’t kill hostages. He didn’t kill victims.

He wasn’t a monster.

_“Jason…”_

He reached for his belt.

“ _JASON!”_

Oracle’s voice broke through the haze, just as his hand closed around the small pouch on his belt, the one that contained diluted samples of Scarecrow’s fear toxin. He closed his fist around one of the fragile tubes, feeling the glass crack underneath his grip.

He felt a flash of cold fear run down his spine as the liquid sizzled and dissipated into the air.

He thought of Jonathan Crane, and the madman he had become.

He closed his eyes.

And held his breath.

And waited.

It wasn’t the same formula that he and Scarecrow had planned to unleash across the East Coast, but the batch that Jason had was potent enough.

Fists hammered against him, and he felt several scalpel blades tear through his armor.

He gritted his teeth and waited for the toxin to take effect.

“ _Jason, Jason talk to me. I have your coordinates at the Monarch Theatre, do you need backup?”_

Robin. Nightwing. Oracle. More people to witness his failure.

Jason would have laughed if he could.

***** 

You could _hear_ him, even without the power, Pyg was still singing, laughing.

You could hear a man screaming. The creak of the wooden floors as Pyg danced on them.

You had never felt so cold in your life.

The blackness before you seemed endless; you couldn’t even see your outstretched hand as you tried to feel your way past the hallway. Behind you, you could hear the shuffle of feet, the terrified whispers of Pyg’s prisoners as they, too, tried to navigate their way in the darkness.

You stood perfectly still and listened as their voices grew distant, until the only thing you could hear was Pyg’s voice.

A part of you wished that you had gone with them.

_“Yes, yes, my darlings. Show him, show him, no one will ever take you away from me again!”_

You guessed that the _him_ that Pyg was talking about was Red Hood. A shudder ran through you; you wished that you’d kept the knife.

Your palms were slick with sweat as they made contact with the walls, and you couldn’t help the sigh of relief that escaped you.

All you had to do was follow Pyg’s voice.

_And then what?_ a voice in the back of your mind asked. _And then what? Swoop into the rescue like Batman?_

There was a lump in your throat that wouldn’t go away with swallowing. Not for the first time, you wished that you had something... _more._ More than the power to heal yourself, more than something that can only be used to keep you alive.

You’ve heard of them, people who had the power of flight, the strength to hold up collapsing buildings.

Something in your chest burned, listening to Pyg’s mad ravings, his insane laughter.

Maybe it was just as well, that you didn’t have that kind of power.

Gotham City had no place for heroes.

You made your way down the hall, grimacing as the glass and broken chips of wood dug into your feet.

It didn’t matter, you could always heal them, after.

If you had an _after._

Eventually, you came across a door, where Pyg’s voice sounded louder than ever. Someone else was speaking, too, their voice sounding hoarse and choked with tears. Despite your fear, you felt yourself scowling--did Pyg have another victim in there with him?

You pressed your ear against the wood, trying to find out more about what was going on inside. Trying to find the breaker switch had been a half-assed excuse to go separate from Pyg’s previous prisoners, but more and more it was starting to seem like a good idea. It would help the others navigate their way out of Monarch Theatre, at the very least.

Inside, you could hear muffled voices, and what sounded like a man’s choked screams.

And above it all, Pyg still singing in that sickly-sweet voice of his, every once in a while cutting himself off with a pig-like snort.

You could feel your heart hammering painfully against your ribs; Pyg wouldn’t have sounded that calm if Red Hood was the one who cut the lights.

A frustrated scream, the clatter of metal instruments hitting the floor.

_“What are you doing?”_ Pyg asked, and his voice had lost that taunting, sing-songy quality it had a second ago.

He sounded distracted, like he was talking to someone. You decided that it was a good time to try and sneak into the room.

_“What are you doing?”_ Pyg asked, again.

Pyg’s voice was soft, curious; so different from his usual way of talking. And somehow, that made him seem more dangerous.

A man’s muffled groan.

The metal doorknob felt like ice against your hand.

It was now or never.

You pushed open the door.

The creak of ancient, rusted hinges was lost as the room erupted into a chorus of terrified screams.

Ten, twenty, maybe thirty people, all screaming as if they were dying, as if they were being tortured, their voices somehow magnified in the darkness.

Instinctively, you threw yourself to the floor, covering your head with your hands.

“What have you done?! What have you done?! YOU’RE HURTING THEM!”

The sound of creaking wood, the crash of a metal gurney hitting the floor, and a man’s cries joined the hellish chorus.

“Help! Someone help me! Red Hood, help me! I’m over here!”

“QUIET! QUIET! QUIET! MAKE THEM STOP! MAKE IT STOP!”

You heard it then, despite Pyg’s hysterical shrieks, despite the screaming.

It was unmistakable.

The whistle of a blade as it sliced through flesh, followed by a terrible gurgling sound.

The sound of someone dying.

Someone was _dying_ in this room with you. You could still hear them, the rattling sound of their gasps as they struggled for air. Hot tears streamed down your cheeks.

And still, the voices kept on screaming.

You wondered then if you had died on that gurney in Pyg’s operating room.

You wondered if this was hell.

Your face felt numb, you could feel your thoughts cracking like glass.

In the corner of the room, you could see something red, glowing weakly.

The man had been calling out to Red Hood before he died; was that glow from his helmet?

It was low on the ground, he was either crouching or lying down. You watched as it rose, swaying as it did so.

If Red Hood was still alive, you needed to help. You needed to make sure that Pyg would end up in GCPD lockup.

_Or dead._

You had to find the breaker switch.

Pyg was still muttering to himself. The screaming kept on, and on, and on.

The switch was near Pyg, it had to be.

_Unless he had one of his “assistants” to turn it off for him._ You banished the thought from your mind; this was the only thing you could do, the only lead you could go on. If you didn’t move, if you kept frozen to your spot, you were sure that you would go stark raving mad.

You could hear the shuffle of feet, the creak of wooden planks as they were trodden on.

You breathed in deep, felt the tightness in your muscles, the cold sweat running down your back.

A second, two, of listening to Pyg’s mad babblings.

Your legs felt frozen solid.

“Move,” you whispered. Maybe you shouldn’t have spoken–didn’t think it mattered with all the screaming–but it was enough to get you to move.

Slowly, painfully, you made your way across the theater, hands out in front of you in case you accidentally bumped into someone.

You had the sudden, vivid mental image of encountering the dead man in the darkness, of touching his still-warm skin, feeling the life drain from his body.

It was hard not to bite back a scream when your foot hit something solid and you stumbled.

The bottom part of a staircase.

A wave of nausea swept over you at the realization; Pyg was _on a stage_. This was all some grand performance to him.

_Gotham really_ was _full of crazies._

You tried to climb up the stairs without making any noise, but the theater was old, and you could hear the wooden planks creaking underneath your feet.

And somehow, through all the screaming, and the noise, and his own insane ranting, Pyg heard you.

The sharp intake of breath.

The sudden silence.

And suddenly, he was speaking to _you,_ and even in the darkness, you could have sworn his eyes were fixed on you.

“Someone, someone is here with Pyg, who is it, who is it? Isn’t one of my beauties, yes, or I would know…”

Somehow, horribly, he was still using that awful, sing-songy voice of his, as if you were a child he intended to sing to sleep.

“Pyg knows there’s someone here, Pyg always knows…”

“What, now you’re omniscient, too, you bastard?” Red Hood’s voice cut through Pyg’s easily and you could hear the slurring in his words, the way he hissed through gritted teeth.

He sounded like he was in pain.

“Someone is here,” Pyg whispered, and he sounded closer this time. Pinpricks of cold sweat dotted your arms. “Pyg knows.”

Pain exploded across your face as something–most likely a fist–slammed into you; stars burst in front of your eyes as Pyg screamed hysterically.

“NO! NO! NO! NO!” He punctuated each word with a fist hammering down at you. You threw your arms out to protect your head, backing away as he rained blows down on you.

For once, the darkness worked in your favor; Pyg missed more than he hit, lashing out like a wounded animal. But still, every blow, even glancing ones, had enough force behind them to make your knees buckle.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the glow of Red Hood’s helmet, swaying.

“GET DOWN!” His voice cut easily through Pyg’s ramblings, and you obeyed at once, dropping onto your knees.

The crack of a gunshot rolled across the empty theatre, and Pyg let out a wail of terror.

You could hear a soft _whump_ as the bullet hit something high above you.

Curtains?

You remembered then, how theatres would have massive curtains to hide the backstage.

And perhaps that was where the breaker switch was there, too. You scrambled to your feet, trying to feel your way across the stage.

“NO! YOU CAN’T KILL PYG! PYG STILL HAS SO MUCH MORE WORK LEFT TO DO!”

You felt the brush of Pyg’s hand against your back; you could feel ice forming in your veins.

A sudden, vivid image of him reaching for you, scalpel in hand, glowing unnaturally bright in the darkness.

And you were running headlong across the stage, arms thrown out in front of you, your heart beating so loud you were sure that Pyg could hear it.

The feel of heavy curtains against your fingertips, the rustle of fabric as you slipped into the backstage.

_The switch, the switch._ You needed to find the switch.

_If it even existed._

You felt your way across the backstage; the curtains deadened the noise from outside, and the only thing you could hear was your own ragged breathing.

Wooden chairs, pieces of torn cardboard that might have once been a prop.

You could have sworn something was in there with you.

You strained your ears for the sound of footsteps, the sound of the curtains being pulled back, for any sign that Pyg might have followed you inside.

Nothing.

Would the switch be at the very back of the stage? A mad little giggle burst out of you; you didn’t even know where to start.

What was Red Hood doing outside? For all you knew, Pyg could have killed him by now. Your arms prickled uneasily at the thought.

You felt the walls, trying to find something that resembled a switch or a fusebox. You could feel holes from where the wood had been eaten away by termites, wet spots where the water had seeped into the walls.

And you hand fell upon something cold, solid.

Something that felt like _metal._

Your heart stuttered in your chest as you reached out for it, ran your hands along the smooth surface until you found something that felt like a handle.

You slid it open, and nearly cried, when you touched the handle of what could only be a switch, pulled down.

Barely pausing to catch your breath, you grabbed it with both hands and yanked it up.

The sound of something clicking, the crackle of electricity.

And finally, mercifully, light flooded the room.

*****

Jason could taste the blood in his mouth. There was a stitch in his chest that wouldn’t go away. And in his ears, Oracle’s frantic voice, calling for him.

“Monarch Theatre,” he spat. “I’m in Monarch Theatre, Oracle. I found Pyg.”

“You found–?” Her voice stuttered.

Then, she somehow managed to steady herself and when she next spoke, she sounded calm.

“Do you need backup?”

Jason looked around. His helmet had trouble adjusting to the sudden light. Pyg’s Dolls had done some serious on the thing; Jason’s vision was in fractals.

Mercifully, the air filtration was still intact. Something had happened when he cracked open the vial of fear toxin. The Dolls had leaped off of him as if they’d been burned.

And then they’d started screaming. They had screamed until their voice broke, until all Jason could hear was their hoarse gasps.

They were standing still now; some of them would sometimes swing their arms at an unseen monster. Most of them were trembling as if they were too scared to move.

One of the Dolls was lying on the floor. Jason’s scanners told him he was dead.

He could feel his chest burning. It was hard to breathe.

He could hear himself gasping for air.

_Pathetic._

And on the stage, looking up at the sudden bright light, was Pyg. A man lay on the floor, dead, his body still strapped to the gurney. Milky, sightless eyes stared at Jason.

He could feel the accusation in them.

Jason had failed to save him.

He felt it then, the way rage swept all of his other emotions aside, tunneling his vision, until all he could see was Pyg.

His gun was still in his hand.

The only person that Pyg could have hidden behind was dead.

When he spoke, Jason’s voice was hoarse.

“No,” he said softly. “I don’t need backup.”

He took aim and fired, and there was something sweet about the way Pyg squealed in terror.

Jason missed on purpose, felt the dark curl of pleasure in his gut at the way Pyg dived to the floor.

“You can’t kill Pyg! Pyg still has so much left to do!”

“Tough luck.” The next shot didn’t miss, even with Pyg circling the stage, trying to make a difficult target of himself. There was a sickening crunch as the bullet hit home, shattering the man’s kneecap.

He let out an unearthly scream as he collapsed to the floor.

Jason could see him scrambling to get away from the stage, crawling, dragging his broken leg behind him.

On any other person, it would have been pitiful.

“Protect me!” Pyg gasped, and his voice had lost its high-pitched, sing-songy quality. The words came out in a wet gasp, as if he was on the verge of tears.

“Protect me, my pretties! Don’t let him take me away!”

Jason laughed then, but there was no humor in it. Only a searing bitterness, dredged up from somewhere deep inside him.

“Do I look like Batman to you? I don’t give second chances, Pyg.”

He was at the bottom of the stage now, ascending the steps two at a time. He could feel every blow that the Dolls had landed on him, felt the drag in his left leg as he walked.

But he kept his eyes fixed on Pyg, as the man tried to crawl away, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

Jason took careful aim.

“NO!” Pyg’s last words came out in a desperate scream. He threw out his hands to protect his face.

He was close enough to see the cracks in his mask, the wide, terrified eyes. He could hear the wheeze in Pyg’s breathing.

Jason blinked.

Once, he had tried to crawl away like that, too. Tried to cover his head, protect his face.

And still, the Joker had caught up to him.

_It’s not the same._

He took careful aim. A difference of eight feet. No way Jason would miss.

“NO! PLEASE!”

The bullet ripped through Pyg’s pleading fingers, piercing straight through his chest.

And Jason could see it, see it in the way Pyg’s eyes widened, the way he stared, almost unbelievingly at the spreading bloodstain on his gown.

The slow realization that _this was it;_ he was dying. The one thing he won’t be coming back from.

Jason heard the rustle of curtains, a soft scream, but he didn’t say anything. He was still staring at Pyg.

Pyg opened his mouth once, twice; a wet gurgling sound came out. There was a horrible sucking sound coming from his chest.

“Is he–?” Jason heard your voice as if from a great distance.

“Dying?” he said. “Yes.”

He watched, watched as Pyg tried to staunch the flow of blood, watched as his fingers went limp and fall away from the wound, watched as his scanners showed Pyg’s heartbeat, first fast, then slowing, slowing, slowing, until finally–

Pyg’s breath rattled eerily in his throat, one final gasp.

And then nothing.

And the silence that stretched out after it was endless.


End file.
